


i know you're gonna eat me alive

by dangercupcake



Category: Superstition by Superstition_hockey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Aromantic Character, Discussion of Rape, Eating Disorders, Hockey, Lack of Communication, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Sports Issues, men in panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 07:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10917636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: “Hey,” Honoré says abruptly. “You want a blowjob?”Chantal has just taken a bite of his sandwich. He keeps chewing.“To help you relax. You look wound up as hell.”“Actually, I really fucking do,” says Chantal finally.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Superstition_hockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Breakaway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8917384) by [Superstition_hockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey). 



> In [Breakaway](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8917384), Honoré offers Luc a blowjob and Luc says no. This is the story of what could have happened if Luc had said yes.

On bad days, Honoré wears eyeliner and black lace underwear like he’s sixteen again. But these days, his eyeliner is MAC and his underwear isn’t furtively ordered from Amazon among 15 other things in hopes his papa won’t notice one odd item, but bought properly from the good place that makes it with space for his dick so he doesn’t have to tuck. On bad days, he puts on _classic_ My Dying Bride at the tea shop, the stuff from the 90s, from before he was even born, and rubs his fingers over the words at his hip. 

( _I won’t die / without your heart / in my hand_ , the only words on his body in English, of course they’d be stupid goth metal lyrics about his tragic first love. He keeps meaning to cover them up, and then never goes through with it.)

That’s not fair, though. The bad days aren’t really about . . . that. Bad days are about feeling like he’ll never write again, about Papa not caring enough, about working in a tea shop the rest of his life, about Conseil des Arts du Canada turning down his grant application that would have let him take a year off between his BA and MFA. Bad days are about feeling like there’s not one moment of happiness to be wrung out of life. 

It’s a bad day, such a bad day, six hours not far enough away from Papa, Honoré ready to move to Vancouver and speak English to get farther away from “Why must you _write?_ Don’t you want to do something that’s _real work_?” when his day gets immeasurably worse because _Luc Chantal_ walks into his tea shop.

No, because Luc Chantal, who grew up two streets over from him, who was -- and still is, according to all the hockey media Honoré can’t help seeing because this is Canada -- the best friend of Honoré’s high school boyfriend and first love, walks into his tea shop and _does not recognize him_.

And of course he has a douchey tea order and no reusable cup, like he thinks he’s walked into a Starbucks where they keep unsustainable coconut milk behind the bar just waiting for millionaire hockey players to ask for it.

Honoré makes his drink -- a chai latte made with tea bags instead of syrup but ordered in the most douchey way possible -- with hemp milk.

**

Chantal keeps coming back. With a fucking Nordiques mug. At least he took Honoré’s comments about being a sustainable business seriously.

It means more bad days for Honoré, but no one’s ever cared about that. No one but Jackson and even Jackson didn’t really care. 

**

The master’s program isn’t going to be any more challenging than the BA program. Honoré wants to love Laval, but he feels numb inside. He wants to write, he wants to get his PhD here, he wants to study the Acadian history and turn it into literature, but his classes, his cohort, his professors -- nothing keeps his interest. The other students write the most banal crap that MFA candidates have been churning out forever, and Honoré is petrified that his writing is the same. They’re studying the same literature that students have been studying since the beginning of time, and there’s nothing new or interesting about it; this is what Honoré’s working for? He could do this on his own, or maybe with an enthusiastic book club.

He talks himself into going out one Saturday night, to find someone to appreciate his lace underwear and black eyeliner, but comes home alone, on the drunk side of tipsy and jerks off into a handful of tissues thinking about blowjobs; he’s had more than a few really good ones from hookups in undergrad. He’s given more than a few really good ones, he likes to think.

His whole life hasn’t revolved around Jackson. Whole months go by, he doesn’t even think of him. It’s just harder now, with Chantal hanging around, and hockey back in Québec City. It figures: Honoré goes to, like, the only Canadian city without a hockey team, and it gets a hockey team.

Honoré doesn’t know what to do except plough through. Plough through everything. Wear more eyeliner. Buy a new pair of jeans that are tighter. Listen to more My Dying Bride. 

**

A phone call from his father, a light paycheck, a rip in his favorite underwear, and he has to dip into his tattoo savings for grocery money. Yes, the highlight of Honoré’s week is handing Chantal a Habs mug.

“Oh,” he says sweetly, “I’m sorry. Were you a person that people take pictures of in this city?”

**

Honoré has no _inspiration_. What is he supposed to be writing about? He’s in two writing seminars, one for poetry and one for short stories. Neither of them want him writing about the seventeenth century queer Acadian settler he can’t get out of his head. (One day, he promises himself, he’ll get that grant from Conseil des Arts du Canada.) Coming out narratives are so overdone; maybe it would be interesting if he were at all in touch with any of the Metis part of his heritage, but Papa cut that all off when Maman left. Honoré doesn’t have it in him to pretend part of his soul is missing, that he doesn’t know who he is because that’s gone. Maman left and took everything away -- he could write about that, but who wants to be the guy in the MFA program with mommy issues? 

They already have one of those, anyway. He’s writing murder mystery short stories, and the murderer always kills a mother.

Chantal keeps coming into the tea shop and making Honoré want to write about Jackson. The way his hair used to curl around Honoré’s fingers. His freckles -- like constellations is such a tired simile, but he’d get sleepy with pot and Honoré would trace them under the moonlight. His long bones and rangy muscle. How he was always hungry; the way his pink mouth would devour food, anything Honoré could find to feed him. He liked anything with avocado -- even just slices of avocado covered in seeds, a recipe Honoré found on a Tumblr for athletes. 

Honoré could write six novels about the hollow feeling in his stomach when he thinks about how hard he worked to keep Jackson from knowing how much Honoré _liked him_.

Instead he writes a short-short about a lacrosse player at a private school trying to stay in the closet, and imbues it with as much longing as he can, and all the fury he remembers -- _Is it worth it?_ is the theme; how many times did he ask Jackson that? He can’t remember. Maybe never; maybe he only wondered it in his head.

No one likes the story. His cohort all roll their eyes; one even says, “Staying in the closet is so 1990s,” as though homophobia has been “solved” or something. But his professor -- he writes PASSIONATE across the top, and “Would love to see more like this from you” at the end, and no criticism at all.

**

Honoré starts to love writing short stories about “Gaétan” and his problems with being an athlete and being gay. He’s never told anyone about Jackson -- even when he dated Marc in undergrad, he said he just hooked up within his own squad in high school, gothy theater and lit kids -- and this is like the best therapy. Getting into Jackson’s head, writing about all the things Honoré had disdained, taking it all as seriously as Jackson had. The bullshit about the media caring about his hair is suddenly important; sneaking around at night, everything being a secret, not talking during school hours. Honoré used to get a bathroom pass and put notes in Jackson’s locker when the hallways were empty; god, he’d been so fucking gone on that kid.

The more he writes about “Gaétan,” the more sympathy he feels for Chantal too. Sure, the guy is an asshole, and has always been a dick, but he had some of the same pressures Jackson did. 

And an eating disorder.

“You can be a dick about this,” Honoré tells himself once he’s back in the kitchen, “or you can be a human.”

Even Luc Chantal deserves some kindness sometimes. Honoré loads up a tray with some of their lunch stuff. He mixes up a special sauce for Chantal, the kind of thing he would have made for Jackson back in the day -- yogurt instead of mayo for low fat/high protein.

When he gives it to Chantal, the guy looks like he’s going to cry.

“Thank you,” says Chantal. He’s taking deep breaths. He rubs his eyes. Honoré sits down across from him and watches him eat soup. “Are you going to call Deadspin?” 

“No,” Honoré says. What the fuck. He wants to say, “I grew up with you, you idiot,” but he doesn’t. Just adds, “I’m not. If you have something I can sign to prove that, I will.”

“You don’t need --”

“I want to. To put your mind at ease.”

Chantal gives him an NDA, and Honoré signs it without even reading it. It’s in English, anyway. Probably too much legal bullshit for Honoré to understand.

He pushes the NDA back across the table and watches Chantal eat. It’s weirdly satisfying. Honoré doesn’t usually make the food; he’s mainly bar and register. They like to have him up front, being mean to the customers and picking the music. Everyone has a skill.

Chantal looks so _down_. He looks the way Honoré feels, honestly. Black eyeliner can only fix so much, and Chantal doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d even go for the eyeliner. What would make _Honoré_ feel a little better right now is if Jackson came into the shop and offered him a blowjob. 

Well, and then they could _talk_ or something, for the first time in like six years. But also a blowjob and a makeout session. Honoré might be having some problems with nostalgia for a hard hockey body under his lately.

“Hey,” he says abruptly. “You want a blowjob?”

Chantal has just taken a bite of his sandwich. He keeps chewing.

“To help you relax. You look wound up as hell.”

“Actually, I really fucking do,” says Chantal finally. “But I’d kind of be cheating on someone.”

Honoré does not burst out laughing the way he wants to. Someone finally tied Luc Chantal down? No fucking way, he does not believe it. “Text her and ask if you can have a one time, no strings attached exemption.”

“No, that’s -- that’s . . . yeah.” Chantal digs out his phone. “Gimme a sec.”

Honoré watches Chantal frown at his phone and leans his face on his fist. He feels a little hysterical. _Collect the whole set!_ he thinks to himself. 

“We’re open until six, and I’m here until six-thirty,” he says. “Take your time.” He shakes his hips as he walks back to the bar, just in case Chantal is watching. 

Chantal stays. And stays. He finishes the food and stays. Honoré brings over his stupid tea order, even though he didn’t order it, and takes away the food tray. The whole shop is empty except for the two of them, but they don’t talk. The whole last hour the shop is perfectly silent except for Morrissey asking, _Please please please, let me, let me, let me get what I want this time._

It’s a little too on the nose, but Honoré is too stubborn to change the CD just because of dramatic irony.

Honoré counts out the cash drawer, puts the money in the safe in the back, and comes to Chantal’s table. 

“You wanna come back to my place? I live a few blocks from here.” When Chantal hesitates, Honoré rolls his eyes. “Listen, it’s either walk three blocks to my apartment, or someone sees me get in your car and drive away with you. It’s only going to look gay if you make it look suspicious.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” protests Chantal. “I’m not an asshole.”

“Sure,” says Honoré. “You can convince me of that on the walk.”

**

Chantal does _not_ convince Honoré he’s not an asshole on the walk, but he does whip out pictures of his dog Mako making friends. 

“Have you ever seen _Pacific Rim_?” asks Honoré. “It’s this old science fiction movie about fighting aliens with robots.”

“Ugh, no, why does everyone love science fiction so much? You, my parents, my best friend --” Chantal keeps talking, but Honoré has to tune him out for a minute, because he has a pinch of guilt and panic.

Jackson would kill to be in the position Honoré is in right now. Jackson is the one who showed Honoré _Pacific Rim;_ Jackson is the one who loved Mako Mori. Jackson would probably gleefully slit Honoré’s throat to suck Chantal’s cock, and Honoré can’t even tell Jackson that Chantal is queer enough to get a BJ from a dude, so Jackson has a shot.

“This is me,” says Honoré, interrupting whatever Chantal was saying. It couldn’t have been important. He pulls out his keys. “I’m a fourth floor walkup; how’s your cardio?”

“Better than yours,” Chantal says immediately. He’s so easy.

“Race you to the top.”

Honoré lets Chantal win. It’s only fair.

**

On his knees, with Chantal’s thick dick in his mouth, Honoré feels like he’s betraying Jackson -- or maybe Chantal is? But it’s so good to suck a dick Honoré doesn’t have to _worry about_. No weird pickup shit, no worrying about condoms, no having to deal with _feelings_ or exchanging numbers. 

Chantal trims his bush, which Honoré thinks is thoughtful of him, because he’s hairy as fuck, all the way up his dick, and his balls aren’t just fuzzy. He’s a dark-haired monster. Honoré likes it -- he can’t forget who he’s with. Usually he hooks up with interchangeable guys who wax or shave, who are pale and slight, who Honoré is much bigger than. No one who can remind him of Jackson. Chantal doesn’t remind him of Jackson, though, doesn’t try to use his body to his advantage at all, just throws his head back and takes it. He’s polite with his hands, doesn’t try to get Honoré to deep throat him, doesn’t even cuss that much. When Honoré swallows, he seems dazed, content to slump against Honoré’s pillows and blink for a while.

“I really needed that,” Chantal finally says. “This slump is killing me.”

“It’s only been five games,” says Honoré. He flops down beside Chantal.

Chantal eyes him. 

“It’s impossible to go anywhere in this city without hearing about it. Don’t think this means I care about your ridiculous sport.” Honoré tugs a pillow out from under Chantal and uses it for himself. Somehow Chantal ended up with all of them. It figures.

“Five games means five games of hearing about how we shouldn’t have a female coach, I need a different center, why aren’t we playing like an Original Six team already.” He yawns. “Like, get off my fucking dick, we’re a brand new team, give us some time.”

“Frustrating.”

“The girl I’m sleeping with tells me to shut the fuck up when I start talking about hockey, she doesn’t give a shit, doesn’t want to hear it. Can’t really talk to my best friend either. It’s fine, but, like, stressful.”

Honoré doesn’t want to hear about it either, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he says, “And sometimes you just need your dick sucked.”

Chantal turns his head a little. “Yeah, I got my pass. Tea guy, blowjob guy, multitalented guy.”

“Customer service is my life,” says Honoré drily.

“Do you . . . uh . . .” Chantal leans in. “Like, how much do you hate me?” he asks, and then he kisses Honoré and puts a hand on his dick.

Honoré makes a muffled noise into Chantal’s mouth before he relaxes into it. This is gay for a straight guy. This is gay for anyone, but particularly gay for a straight guy. When Chantal pulls back, fingers starting to unbutton Honoré’s jeans, Honoré can’t help but be a little shit.

“Do I need to sign another NDA for this?”

Chantal just laughs and starts to move down the bed.

**

Honoré wishes he hated himself for letting Chantal blow him while he thought about Jackson _being there_ , but he doesn’t. It was just a moment that happened and now it’s over. They don’t even mention it the next time Chantal is in the shop, looking drained, and Honoré sneaks him an oat bar. Lily flashes Honoré a knowing look and Honoré tells her to shut up. 

**

Honoré is struggling with the next story in the “Gaétan” series -- give him a boyfriend, give him an _Honoré_ , or keep him single and tragic and lonely? -- when his buzzer goes. He ignores it; he’s not expecting anyone. Someone’s delivery guy probably hit the wrong buzzer. But then it goes again, and a third time, so he gets up and drags himself to the door.

“What?” he demands.

“Let me up.”

“ _What?_ ” he says, this time in astonishment.

“It’s Luc,” says Chantal, completely unnecessarily.

“Yes, I know,” replies Honoré, pressing the ouvrir button. It’s but a moment before pounding echoes on the stairs, Chantal racing up them. He’s not even panting when he reaches Honoré’s open door; it’s disgusting.

“Bro,” says Chantal in English.

“ _Mon gar_ ,” replies Honoré disdainfully.

“You weren’t at the tea shop.”

“I don’t work every day, all the time.” Honoré sighs and steps back, letting Chantal in.

“Well, I wanted to see you.” Chantal turns around fast, faster than Honoré would think that big body should be able to, and crowds Honoré against the door. He smells like alcohol, tequila maybe, or rum, something sweet. “Okay?”

“You wanted to see me or you wanted to see my lace underwear again?”

“Is it okay if I say both? Both is good.” Chantal cups his face and kisses him before Honoré can say anything cliché like, “No kissing anymore,” or “What about your girlfriend?” so really Chantal is saving Honoré from himself. With his mouth. 

“I -- just -- really --” Chantal murmurs between kisses, “Wanted -- to -- I wanted -- to -- suck -- your -- cock. Again.”

“Be my guest,” says Honoré breathlessly, kind of hating them both, but feeling too swept away. Plus: a blowjob. Maybe it’ll help with the writer’s block.

**

Chantal comes the next night too, even later but this time not smelling of liquor. He brings his dog and a bed for her that he drops under Honoré’s kitchenette table. Honoré drops to his knees to say hello to her and gets his face washed for his trouble before she goes to her bed and stretches out so all four paws hang off it.

“She’s so much cuter than you,” says Honoré.

Chantal snickers. “But I’m here to suck your dick and she’s here to snore.”

“Let me put down a bowl of water for her.” Honoré takes out one of the bowls he uses for cooking and fills it quickly from the filter, sets it near Mako’s head. 

“Now we’ll have to walk her again tonight,” Chantal warns.

“You weren’t just going to walk her on your way home?” Honoré looks at him from under his fringe, at Chantal’s raised eyebrows. “I see, just invited yourself to stay over, did you?”

Chantal shrugs, a little sheepishly. “I’m kind of avoiding the house right now. It’s complicated. I just have to make it until Christmas, though, and then Sveta -- the girl, woman, woman, person, I was sleeping with, she’ll have moved out by the time I get back, and it’ll . . . I don’t know, be normal again.”

“Your girlfriend broke up with you and has taken over your house?” translates Honoré. “And she’s not moving out until Christmas? When did you break up?”

“We didn’t _break up_.” Chantal sprawls across the bed and starts kicking off his track pants. “We weren’t _dating_. I don’t -- we were just sleeping together, but I guess she, like, moved in when I wasn’t paying attention or something, all her stuff is everywhere. I couldn’t just box it all up and tell her to fuck off.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what happens when people break up.” Honoré folds the clothes Chantal takes off, setting them to the side. His shirt says “Hockey Republic” and has a picture of a bear with a hockey stick. It’s ridiculous. The sleeves are ripped off and the neck is ripped out. Chantal just pulls it over his head and hands it to Honoré.

“It would be rude,” Chantal tells him, and stretches out. “Your bed is so small.”

“You’re oversized.” And he is. Slabs of muscle on top of slabs of muscle draped in sleek skin and rough hair. There’s still room for Honoré on the bed, though. Especially if Honoré gets on top of him and rubs against the bulge of Chantal’s cock. He wears stupid manly briefs that Honoré loves.

“Show me your lacy panties, Honoré,” says Chantal, grinning at him, rubbing his dick through his briefs. “What color are they today?”

“Purple,” says Honoré haughtily. He deliberately starts with his shirt, unbuttoning every button slowly and carefully. 

“Tease.” Chantal’s voice is rough, and when Honoré looks up, Chantal is staring at him intensely. Honoré doesn’t look away as he pushes his shirt off his shoulders and folds it, then steps delicately out of his jeans and folds them. 

“Do you want to show me how much you like my lacy panties?” asks Honoré, running his hands up his chest and then through his hair.

“I do, actually.” Chantal grabs for him, and just _manhandles him_ onto the bed and underneath him. They’re not quite the same height, but Chantal outweighs him by at least seventy, eighty, a hundred pounds of muscle, Honoré has no idea. It’s a lot, and it’s incredibly fucking hot.

It’s nothing like when Jackson used to hold him down in the back of Honoré’s papa’s truck, both of them much smaller then, Jackson’s “superior” strength not really much more than Honoré’s -- but Honoré can’t help feeling that stupid nudge of guilt anyway, that Jackson should be here instead of him. And a little nostalgia, a missing, that Chantal isn’t Jackson, isn’t romantic and sweet and gentle, doesn’t want to watch movies and snuggle and make out for hours, just wants sex and someone in his bed.

Maybe, Honoré thinks later, fucked out and dozing, Chantal spooned behind him and snoring in concert with the dog, Chantal saves the romance for girls. And Honoré gets his brains sucked out through his dick three times in one night. Chantal is wasted on a woman, he’s so hungry for cock. Honoré never would have guessed.

**

“Can I get a to-go cup today?” asks Chantal. He looks exhausted and too thin, same as yesterday and the day before that. Honoré bites his lip. 

“I have something for you,” he says, as he writes “Le Volé” on the paper cup. 

“Can you save kicking me in the balls for tomorrow?” It’s clear Chantal is trying to joke, but it falls totally flat. 

Honoré drops the tea bags into the water and reaches under the bar for his bag. “Look, Chantal, you don’t have to take it, I’m just --”

“Sorry,” Chantal says quietly. “What is it?”

“I used to make these for -- my ex. Who was an athlete. They’re all protein. I used hemp and almond butter. There’s antioxidants. And a lot more calories than you get in shitty protein bars. I just thought . . .” Honoré hands over the bag full of protein balls he’d stayed up late making. “Something homemade might be nice. Whatever. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

Things flicker over Chantal’s face. Honoré doesn’t know how to interpret it all. He turns away to steam the milk so he doesn’t have to look. 

“I have work today,” says Chantal. “Like, a lot of work. But can I come over later?”

“Oh, you’re asking now, instead of just showing up whenever you want?” Honoré places his cup in front of him and takes his credit card. 

“So I’ll see you tonight. I’m bringing Mako.”

“ _Mako_ is always welcome,” says Honoré meaningfully.

Chantal smiles at him, a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes or make him pop out of the scenery the way he usually does, but it still hits Honoré in the chest.

“I’ll see you later, mon chum,” and Honoré knows he just means Honoré is his bro, but -- he hates the ambiguity. Why would Chantal pick the most ambiguous phrase in the whole damn language instead of being clear and straightforward?

Stop, Honoré, he tells himself. You’re getting too involved. You know who this is and what this is, and you know you’re a hopeless romantic. This is going to kill you if you let it.

But when Chantal shows up that night and tells him the protein balls were good, and then, almost shyly, says, “Maybe you could call me Luc sometime, euh?” Honoré forgets to break it off with him and instead invites him _and_ the damn dog into bed to watch a documentary on the slow decline of capitalism. The dog and her owner are asleep in minutes.

Honoré can’t stop the feeling that he should be running for his life instead of stroking his fingers slowly through Luc’s hair. 

 

**

Even though he knows Luc is going away for Christmas and then has a road trip, Honoré finds himself looking up every time someone comes into the shop. To punish himself for being stupid, he forces himself to write brutal poems about Acadian settlers using different types of verse forms, instead of free verse, for assignments. He writes at least 500 words of fiction every day, even when it’s terrible, even when he can’t stop himself from writing the soppiest romance novel he’s ever read, that he has to put aside because it’s no good for classwork. He makes himself go to a hot yoga class every day, even though his favorite yoga class is the one they do holding onto chairs.

If he’s exhausted, he won’t be thinking about Luc Chantal or checking NHL news to see if he’s okay and accidentally seeing a picture of him with his arm around Jackson. They’re both going to the All-Star Game in Vancouver. They have the best “bromance” in the NHL, says the website. “Still going strong.”

Honoré wonders for a moment if Luc would ever mention to Jackson --

No. Shut that right down.

Honoré goes to a second hot yoga class that day, and spends half of it lying on his mat in child’s pose, too overheated to go through the poses, like an idiot.

**

January and February fly by. Honoré struggles to write short fiction for his seminar, but his soppy romance novel that he’s pouring his old feelings about Jackson into is past 40,000 words. He sometimes sees Luc three or four times a week if he’s playing at home; enough that there’s protein shake mix, Greek yogurt, and Luc’s stupid coconut milk in Honoré’s kitchen now, for mornings. Honoré bought a stick blender for him. 

It’s meaningless. It’s the meaningless shit you do for people you sleep with who you don’t care about at all. 

**

“Do you really not watch my games?” Luc asks, leaning on Honoré’s tiny kitchenette table. He’s watching Honoré make tea -- he’d insisted he didn’t want any until Honoré revealed a tin of the moto chai he loves so much. 

Honoré runs through different answers -- Luc doesn’t read his poetry or his stories. Luc doesn’t give a shit about Honoré’s life, not really. Honoré has yet again fallen in with a beautiful jock who doesn’t actually care about him and is in the closet. It’s a fucking talent. He’s sure there are women out there who’d kill to be able to do this.

Honoré pours warm milk into Luc’s tea. He turns with it and sets it on the table for Luc. “You wouldn’t be here if I watched your games,” he says lightly, and kisses Luc on the mouth before turning away again to make his own tea.

**

“It won’t _hurt_ ,” Honoré assures him, “just let me --”

“I know it doesn’t hurt,” says Luc. “Come on -- wait --”

Honoré sighs and sits back on his heels, gropes for the towel he’d set out to wipe the lube off his fingers. Hope springs eternal and all that bullshit. He’d just wanted to get a finger in that magnificent ass, and maybe set himself up for later sometime in the future getting Luc’s cock inside him.

Luc pulls his knees up to his chest. “Look,” he says. “I’m married.”

“You can just _say_ you’re not into butt stuff like every other straight guy who doesn’t mind having a gay dude suck him off,” says Honoré stiffly.

“No. I’m bisexual. I really am married. And we have a deal, all right, it’s -- I can sleep with women, but I’m not supposed to be . . . like . . . with men. You’re the exception, remember? I texted that day? You’re my tea guy and my blowjob guy?”

Honoré may remember vaguely a conversation like that.

“All right,” he says slowly.

“Anal is definitely _cheating_ ,” says Luc emphatically. “Bro, there is no way I could even text and ask for that. Anal isn’t just fooling around and having a good time, it’s -- there’s like a separation, do you get me?”

“That’s pretty . . . heteronormative.” Honoré drops in the word in English. 

“Yeah, well, it’s what we agreed on.” Luc rubs his face with his hands. “I wasn’t expecting this shit with you to go so far. I figured you’d get sick of me after the first night.”

“I did, but you kept coming back.” Honoré smiles to take the sting out of his words. “Who can resist the drunk Chantal charm?”

“All right, fuck off,” says Luc. “Any time you want me to stop sucking your dick, just say so.”

 _I never want you to stop sucking my dick,_ thinks Honoré, and then is horrified at himself. “I suppose this is what you learned growing up, in all those Hockey Canada camps and such? Puck stuff, and then dick sucking?”

Luc stops looking sad and starts looking entertained again, the way Honoré prefers him. “Hockey Canada loves queer hockey players. It’s true. That’s why so many of us are out and proud,” he says. “They teach us dick sucking starting from puberty, when they teach us how to say, ‘Get pucks to the net.’”

The rest of the night is better, laughing blowjobs and Luc smiles the whole time.

After Luc falls asleep that night, Honoré wonders who he’s married to, that they’re keeping it a secret. A model or an actress; an _American_ female hockey player. Wonders if Jackson knows. Wonders if Jackson is heartbroken or if he’s finally over it. 

**

Before Luc goes to sleep at night, he kisses his fingers and touches a picture he keeps in his wallet. Honoré Googles “Luc Chantal superstition” and watches the most hilarious/horrifying short documentary about Luc and Jackson going into the draft, and all of Luc’s superstitions, including kissing a poster of Mario Lemieux every night before bed, like a saint icon. 

Honoré wants to know what’s so special about this guy, so he Googles him, plus he’s looking for a picture of the poster Luc has in the documentary -- he can print it out and keep it near his bed for Luc. That would be nice of him, right? Show Luc he’s not always a jerk, not just interested in getting his dick sucked and petting Luc’s dog.

Not that Honoré is _looking for anything_ with Luc, but they have a good thing going and Honoré doesn’t want to mess it up by being _himself_ the way he messes everything else up. He knows it won’t last forever or anything, but it’s nice, what they have now, and if it can last for a while . . . 

Except what Honoré finds about Mario Lemieux is . . . if he tells Luc about this, Luc is never going to want to talk to him again. Unless Luc already knows? But Luc is _not_ the kind of guy who kisses a picture of a man who . . . unless he is. Hockey changes people. Hockey is not a great culture. Honoré knows that. 

Honoré steadily prints out the Justia article he found, and the poster of Lemieux, just in case. He could always just text Luc the link, but if Luc doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to blindside Luc with something like this. Luc’s hockey saint icon shattered.

He texts: Are you coming tonight?

Luc texts back: We’re both coming tonight, baby.

What a dope.

Honoré texts back a puking face and a pile of poop.

**

Luc reads the Justia article with a blank face, ignoring the steaming chai latte at his elbow. Mako knows something’s wrong; she’s making whining noises at their feet. 

Honoré sits down on the floor with her and scratches her ears, leans against Luc’s leg. Finally Luc moves and gets down on the floor with them. He leans against the fridge and lets Mako climb into his lap and lick his face.

“How can this be true?” he asks, his voice low. “He’s _Le Magnifique._ He’s . . . he’s so _nice._ He has, like, a children’s cancer fund. He has _kids._ How could he have . . .”

Honoré shrugs. “I don’t know. Anyone can, can’t they?”

“I . . .” Luc shakes his head. “I know you don’t . . . follow me. Or whatever. But . . . like . . . I got in trouble. Whenever, two years ago, in Toronto -- there were a bunch of us, we got strippers.” Luc’s crying, and it’s like he doesn’t even notice it. “They came to the hotel, these two girls, barely wearing clothes, and, like, what if . . . I still _talk_ to one of them, we made up a _handshake_ and we translated it into emoji and we still _text_ , she snapchats me routines she does in my jersey, like . . .”

Honoré does not let Luc see him roll his eyes, because of course Luc made friends with a stripper who now does routines in his jersey. 

“What if it all went bad?” Luc asks. “What if she was crying and shit? Who wants that? Would I -- like, am I a good enough guy that I would have stopped everything if she had been crying? Shit --”

He turns his head away from the dog and pukes on Honoré’s kitchen floor and that’s when Honoré realizes this is actually serious, that Honoré is seeing the great Luc Chantal break the fuck down even though he looks almost normal.

“Sorry,” he says, hiccoughing, “sorry, I need -- I need to go for a run -- I need --”

“No,” says Honoré, “you’re not going for a run. It’s negative degrees outside and snowing and you complained for almost an hour last week that you’re not allowed to run on your knee. Go lie in my bed while I clean this up. Hold the dog.”

“I can’t,” says Luc. “I can’t just be still, I can’t --”

“Do some situps.” Honoré goes over and pulls out his yoga mat from the tiny closet. “Here. Do situps. It’s okay if you puke on this.”

“Honoré . . .”

“You think I’ve never cleaned up puke before? I’m going to put it in a plastic bag and sell it on eBay. The amazing Luc Chantal’s vomit. Buy now.”

Luc doesn’t laugh, just grabs Honoré and holds on. Honoré holds him back. Luc is shaking. Honoré runs his hands up and down Luc’s back, scratches his fingernails soothingly through Luc’s hair. He hadn’t thought about this part, hadn’t thought this through. Hadn’t thought about the smell of vomit in his kitchen. Hadn’t thought about Luc as a _person_ who might have a _reaction_ to a woman being raped.

Honoré hadn’t had a reaction. Not really. It’s something that happens all the time, isn’t it? You get numb to it. He feels numb to it. It’s something hockey players _do_ and get away with, and you get used to it. And then you fall in love with one and realize they’re not all the same -- some are gay and like metal and science fiction and have the most ridiculous orange hair.

Honoré cleans the kitchen up, sprays the floor down. Luc is mechanically doing situps on Honoré’s black yoga mat. It’s still snowing outside; Honoré can’t even imagine Luc outside running in this slippery shit. 

Luc’s phone buzzes and he takes it into the bathroom and shuts the door, turns on the fan so Honoré can’t even eavesdrop. Mako whines and comes over to Honoré.

“I know, girl.” Honoré washes his hands before he pets her. “Your daddy is very upset and it’s my fault.” He sighs. What the fuck should he do now? He turns the kettle back on to make more tea, this time for himself. He gives Mako a biscuit. He sits and waits for Luc, wishing he had Jackson’s phone number, just so he could give him a heads up, tell him, hey, Luc needs you right now. Or maybe Luc’s on the phone with him.

Honoré has migrated to the bed with Mako curled up beside him by the time Luc comes out of the bathroom. He’s not even bothering to try to write, just fooling around with Steam, seeing what new games are up. 

“I’m gonna go,” says Luc, voice raw. 

“Luc . . .” Of course Luc looks beautiful when he’s in agony, all eyelashes and tear tracks and tendons.

“It’s not you. I have -- I have things to do at home now. Gonna . . . burn my gods.” He laughs humorlessly. 

“Are you okay to drive?” asks Honoré, pushing the laptop off his chest and sitting up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to get home and take care of my shit.” Luc bites his lip. “I’ll text you, okay?”

“Sure.” Honoré is _positive_ Luc is _never_ going to text him. But . . . that’s it. It’s fine. Because someone needed to do this. If Luc really thought of Lemieux as someone . . . godlike, or whatever . . . then someone needed to show Luc what Lemieux really was. Just another hockey asshole. Nothing like Jackson. Nothing like Luc himself. Honoré should say that. 

Honoré should say that.

As he opens his mouth, Luc leans down and kisses him gently. He tastes like Honoré’s licorice mouthwash. 

“Thank you,” he says, and then he whistles for Mako, shoves his feet into his boots, and they leave before Honoré can get a word out.

It’s too weird to text.

**

Honoré writes a story about it, the words flowing easily -- two hockey bros fighting over a crying stripper, one of them wanting to rape her, the other stopping him. Then he tucks the story away. His cohort would love it -- anti-Canadian pastimes! -- and that’s reason enough to keep it to himself.

**

Luc doesn’t text, but he shows up at the shop, and Honoré says, “We had some journalist-looking guy sniffing around here yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Luc asks. “What’d you tell him?”

Honoré shrugs. “I told him I’d never seen you before. And then decaffeinated his drink.” He reaches over the counter to scratch Mako’s head where it’s sticking out of Luc’s bag. “And then Lily turned up old horrible screamo so loud our ears were bleeding until the guy left.”

“Thank you,” Luc says, taking his drink. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve got your back or whatever,” Honoré says, all practiced nonchalance. “Take your fucking ridiculous-ass drink and sit down.”

Luc leans a little closer over the bar. “You want a ride home later?”

Honoré gives him a little half-smirk. “Maybe I do. Know anyone going my way?”

“Maybe I do,” Luc returns, and Honoré watches him cross the shop in his stupid outfit to sit in a corner with Mako half on his lap. He’s wearing a $20,000 watch -- Honoré looked it up after Luc left it by the side of the sink one night -- and a pair of sweatpants with holes in the knees. Honoré would bet his whole paycheck that inside his winter boots, Luc isn’t wearing socks. 

Honoré wants to re-activate his old high school Twitter account and find someone who can answer the question, “What do you do when you turn out to have a lot of feelings for the guy you’re hate-banging?” because this warmth in his chest is really unacceptable.

He makes Mako a cup of whipped cream and brings it over just to see Luc smile.

Unacceptable.

**

Luc grunts and rolls out of bed. Honoré sighs and pulls the covers up tighter around his ears. After the door closes, Honoré looks over. Luc’s boots are still sprawled by the door, his gloves still on the table. He’s coming back, then. Honoré relaxes a little. Sometimes Luc stays over, sometimes he goes home; Honoré can’t figure out his pattern. It has nothing to do with Mako -- he doesn’t go to practice or games right from Honoré’s apartment no matter what. It’s just some nights he seems to want to be at home and some he doesn’t.

When he comes back in, Honoré’s watching the door. He’s wearing a hoodie and sunglasses and looks like a total douche. Which he is, of course. Of course. 

Luc crouches down in his ripped up sweatpants to use a kitchen towel to wipe off Mako’s paws. Then he sends her to her bed under the kitchen table. He doesn’t bother to take it home with him anymore and Honoré is annoyed at himself for not minding. 

Then Luc steps out of his stupid Adidas slides, the same kind he and Jackson had and wore incessantly in high school, and comes for the bed. 

“You are insufferable,” Honoré tells him, but allows him under the covers. Once he’s under, Honoré strips him of the freezing cold sweatshirt, and pushes off the ridiculous sweatpants. Of course: no underwear. “Can’t you dress for the weather?”

“I miss California,” Luc says, which Honoré has heard a dozen times if he’s heard it once. He runs his fingers through Luc’s hair -- also cold -- and uses his warm hands to cover Luc’s cold ears for a few moments. “Did I ever tell you at the surf house, they had _avocado trees_?”

“Yes, you’ve told me.” Honoré shivers as Luc slides his feet between Honoré’s legs. The rasp of his leg hair against Honoré’s shaved legs feels amazing, though. “And oranges.”

“And _oranges,_ ” says Luc wistfully. “The fruit in California is amazing. It tastes like fruit, not like cardboard.”

“I know.” Honoré pulls him closer. “You should still at least wear a hat when you go outside at one am.”

Luc curls into Honoré and sighs into his collarbone. “I hate it here.”

“I know.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“I know you won’t.”

Honoré strokes his back, the back of his neck, tangles his fingers in Luc’s hair. 

“You could wear shorts all the time,” mumbles Luc. “Tank tops every day. My arms were _free._ ”

“You still only wear tank tops.” And t-shirts that he’s ripped the sleeves off of. Which Honoré has begun to find charming instead of horrifying.

“Shirts are the worst.”

“Feel free to never wear a shirt in my apartment, then,” says Honoré, yawning. “We’ll turn the heat up.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Luc kisses Honoré’s collarbone. 

Honoré is willing to suffer.

**

Honoré hands Luc a bag of protein balls and his drink. Honoré added nutmeg to it when he saw Luc’s face: cranky _and_ tired despite a win last night that Honoré did _not_ stay up to watch, only checked the scores in the morning.

“How did you know I’d be here today? I didn’t even know I’d be here today,” says Luc.

“You always come in on days when you don’t have a game.” Honoré rolls his eyes. “Was I supposed to think you left a printout of your schedule at my apartment by accident?”

“Uh . . .” Luc bites his lip and Honoré stands up a little straighter. 

“Oh. It _was_ an accident.”

“But I’m glad you have it?” Luc tries.

Honoré waves his hand in Luc’s direction and pretends his stomach isn’t in knots. “Whatever, Chantal. Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m good for.”

“Come on, Honoré, don’t --”

“Do you want to hear about the band that played here last night while you were out carousing with your hockey friends, or not?” Honoré pulls himself a short espresso shot and slides out from behind the bar. “Eat something and I’ll tell you a story about a punk band that you’ll never forget.”

After he gets Luc smiling again, and eating -- it always feels like a triumph when Luc eats -- Honoré moves to get up.

“Hey,” Luc says. “I’ll be over tonight.”

“No,” says Honoré. He swallows hard. This might be the first time he’s ever said no to Luc. “Not tonight, okay?”

“Is this about the schedule? Because --”

“No, it’s -- today is my mother’s birthday. I need to be left alone.”

“Oh -- uh -- okay, bruh, whatever you need.” 

Honoré rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk to me in English.”

When he gets back to the bar, Lily, coming on shift, waggles her eyebrows. “You and Le Volé, huh?”

“Shut up,” snaps Honoré, and grabs a rag to scrub at the bar, even though it’s perfectly clean. 

**

Honoré has a little shoe box that’s so old, he duct-taped it to hold it together. It’s got a cassette tape that he can’t play of his mother singing in choir, a wooden rosary, a few recipe cards written in bubbly handwriting that he can’t quite associate with the dark, drawn woman who never smiled, and a USB key of pictures that he never looks at. He doesn’t even know if the key still works. He hasn’t plugged it into anything in years.

He fingers the rosary and doesn’t touch anything else. Maybe it’s time to throw everything away. It’s not like his mother has ever tried to contact him; she probably doesn’t even think about him.

The knock on the door startles him. When he looks through the peephole, it’s Luc.

“Who let you in?” demands Honoré, opening the door.

“One of your neighbors who always stops to pet Mako. I don’t think she knows who I am except for the guy with the dog.” Luc brushes some snow off his shoulders. “Hey.”

“I said not tonight.”

“I’m not here for that.” Luc pushes into the apartment and kicks off his boots. He’s not wearing socks, and he’s ripped the elastic off the bottoms of his sweatpants. Honoré is pretty sure he’s not wearing underwear either, which shouldn’t be so attractive. “I thought you might want to talk about your mom.”

“I never want to talk about my mother.” Honoré closes the door and steps into the kitchenette to put the top back on the box. 

“Then maybe you want to lie down for a little while and be quiet?”

“You are _never_ quiet.” Honoré rolls his eyes. “Why are you really here?”

“What do you mean, why am I really here?” Luc grabs Honoré by the shoulders. “Stand still. I want to be here for you like you were . . . you know. You were here for me.” He strips Honoré’s shirt off and unbuttons his jeans. “Step out.”

“I’m freezing,” complains Honoré. “This is not sexy in the middle of winter, Luc.”

“Come on.” Luc pulls back the covers on the bed and crawls in. “I don’t really like the red on you. The black is the best.”

“Oh, you like black lace underwear? Stop the presses, what a shock.” But Honoré still crawls into the bed with Luc, and snuggles under the covers. “I should have turned off the lights.”

“It’s fine. Come on, relax.” Luc runs a hand down Honoré’s arm, onto his hip, his thigh. 

“I can’t relax. This is just a bad day. Why don’t you go and come back tomorrow?”

“Let me just be nice to you for _one minute_ , Honoré,” says Luc, tucking himself around Honoré. “Quit being such a self-contained asshole.”

“I told you not to talk to me in English.”

“It doesn’t sound as good in French.” Luc kisses the back of his neck. “Tell me, bro to bro, this is better, right, than being alone?”

“Why did you come over if you weren’t sure it would be?”

“Sometimes I’m not great with . . . this kind of thing. I asked my best friend what to do and he told me, like, I need to respect your boundaries but also show you that I’m here for you.”

Honoré sighs noisily. Fucking Jackson. “Well . . . fine. It’s good. I don’t know. I’ve never _not_ been alone today so I don’t know.”

“What about your dad? Do you have a dad?”

“Yes, I have a dad, Jesus, Chantal.”

“What? I don’t know!”

“I have a dad. We don’t get along. My mom was a little bit religious, my dad is . . . super religious.” Honoré closes his eyes and pulls Luc’s arm around him more tightly. “My dad chased my mother away, I understand that, but she . . . left me.”

“ _Bro._ ”

Honoré sighs. “Yeah.”

Luc kisses behind his ear. 

“She wouldn’t . . . like me. I was me even in grammar school, in high school. I’ve always been me, and I’ve only grown into it.”

“Tell me you wore lace panties in high school.” 

Honoré laughs. “Yes, I did.”

“Hot, bruh.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me in high school. You wouldn’t have even known I existed.” Honoré smiles into his pillow. “And my mother . . . you don’t have to be as religious as my father to disapprove of a person such as myself.”

“That’s such bullshit. A parent should love you no matter what.”

“And yet they do not.” Honoré kisses Luc’s hand, which he’s made into a fist. “Don’t get angry on my behalf. I’m away from my father, and I get to be anyone I want. He only gets to be Catholic.”

Luc sighs noisily into Honoré’s hair, and keeps tight hold of him.

**

The Nordiques get into the playoffs, and Honoré sees Luc once between Luc telling him, “Playoffs, bruh!” and reading an article about Luc having knee surgery after the Nordiques lose in the first round. 

Honoré text Luc: Knee surgery!! Let me know if you need anything!

He doesn’t hear back. Well. He’s not going to text _again_. He has his final project for the semester to finish, more hours at the shop to take on (where Luc is not, and has not been seen at all), and hot yoga to do to make sure he doesn’t spend all his time thinking about what the hell is going on. 

Two weeks. Three weeks. A month. Classes ended in May, and Honoré did fine. He really hates his course of study. He feels like he’s getting nothing out of it _still_ , but who is he supposed to talk to? And will he feel the same once he’s finally done with the MFA and onto the PhD? What good is a PhD going to do him if he’s still serving coffee?

He posts to Tumblr and gets a lot of well-meaning but tired advice from academics who love what they do. No one can tell him what to do when you _hate_ what you do and can’t stop. 

His father texts: he wants a visit. Honoré texts back and says: You can come here, but I am not going to Mass. 

He doesn’t hear back. 

Honoré finishes the romance novel about Jackson and sets it aside. He finishes the last short story about Gaétan and starts editing it into what he thinks could be an awesome young adult novel. None of this is acceptable for his classes, it’s not _literature_ , but he has all summer to do whatever he wants.

July: still nothing from Luc. _Two months_. Honoré cannot believe that asshole. Actually, he _can_ believe it. He always told Jackson Chantal was an asshole. Give Honoré a couple of nice hugs and a few months of blow jobs and suddenly he forgets? Dumb, Honoré.

**

Honoré gathers up all the stuff Luc left in Honoré’s apartment. The dog bed, the Adidas slides, four shirts, two pairs of sweatpants, an iPad, and -- Honoré had to google this -- a watch worth $70,000 made out of rose gold that’s waterproof. And like three pairs of sunglasses -- Versace, Marc Jacobs, and -- what the fuck -- Target. 

Honoré does not smash any of it because Honoré is an adult who understands how breakups work. You give back the stuff. 

He also doesn’t smash the gourmet dog kibble for Mako, or the three different protein powders taking up space on his shelves. He gives the dog kibble to Lily for her dog, and hands the protein powders off to Juliet, the shop manager, whose girlfriend lifts weights. She doesn’t _say anything_ , or try to talk to him about why he’s taking openings instead of closings these days.

Honoré keeps the stick blender. Maybe he’ll start cooking things that are not meant for stupid hockey players and their terrible diets. He’s never made so much baked chicken in his life as he made for Luc. Now he can make other things. He has no idea what. He’s gone back to alternating Thai takeout and leftovers from the shop every night.

**

Luc comes in during the morning rush; Honoré sees him but can’t stop. Nicole is supposed to be on bar with him and she hasn’t shown up yet; Honoré could kill her. When it finally slows down, Honoré is sweaty, can feel his eyeliner is smudged, and is covered in two separate mocha latte orders -- one with hemp milk and one with almond milk. 

Some days, he hates his job.

“Honoré.” Luc saunters up to the bar, looking completed ridiculous and disheveled and fucked out. Honoré is not the one who fucked him out so Honoré does not find it charming in the slightest.

“Go away,” he says. 

“C’mon, I wanna introduce you to someone.”

“Why? You didn’t even want to talk to me for the last two months,” says Honoré, except he didn’t mean to say that. He meant to be cold and emphatically distant.

“Has it been two months?” Luc’s eyes get wide. “I’ve been in the States.”

“Your phone stopped working? The last time I saw you, you didn’t know you were leaving? You were kidnapped? My apologies, you must be so traumatized.” Honoré’s throat hurts. His t-shirt is all wet and sticky. He wants to tap Stephen from the kitchen into the bar so he can go wipe down and change.

“Honoré, bro . . .”

“Luc, just don’t. I knew you didn’t care, I just didn’t realize how much you didn’t care. Don’t worry, you aren’t even the first hockey player who hasn’t . . . cared . . . oh, shit.” Walking out of the washroom and across the shop is Jackson. Who comes to stand next to Luc.

He says, “Luc, can we at least order something now?” He doesn’t even look at Honoré.

Jackson is even more beautiful now than he used to be, if that’s possible. He’s taller, and broader, and his hair is darker. He’s an _adult_ , and all Honoré’s memories are of them as kids together. Now he has to remember this. He is never going to forgive Luc. It doesn’t matter that Luc has no idea what he’s doing.

“No, I’m on break,” says Honoré, and walks away from the bar.

Honoré has this vision that he’ll get himself to the other end of the shop and into the kitchen without incident, but Luc yells, “Hey!” and catches up to him.

“Just stop,” says Honoré. “Just . . .” He sticks his head into the kitchen. “Stephen, can you take the bar for ten minutes, please? I need to step into the office.”

Stephen, bless him, nods. 

“Come with me if you want to make a scene, then,” Honoré tells Luc, and he walks into Juliet’s tiny office and leans on her desk, folds his arms across his sticky chest. Her office is even tinier with two giant hockey players looming.

“So -- Jacks, this is my tea guy,” says Luc in English, sighing.

“Honoré?” says Jackson. “Honoré is your tea guy.”

“I told you he was an asshole, Jackson,” says Honoré.

“What?” asks Luc. “When did you tell him anything?”

“When we were _fucking in high school!_ ” Jackson’s voice is deeper now but it definitely gets high when he’s angry. “I can’t believe this!”

“You fucked Honoré in high school and never told me?” Luc punches Jackson in the shoulder. “Bro! I always gave you deets.”

“Look at him! If I knew you had no idea who he was, I wouldn’t have kept it a secret! But he’s French! And --”

“Acadian,” says Honoré.

“-- dark haired! Tall!”

“Even then you wanted me,” says Luc in satisfaction.

Honoré rolls his eyes. “So you wanted me to meet your best friend and now you know I know him. Can you leave now? I’m still angry at you.”

“No,” says Luc. “I wanted you to meet my _husband._ ”

Honoré goes cold all over. “What.”

“I told you I was married. Who did you think I married?”

“I never thought about it.”

Jackson scoffs. “Sure, Honoré.”

“Shut up,” says Honoré reflexively.

“Honoré . . . you’re not really mad, are you?” Luc says in French. 

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be mad?”

“Come to our house tonight. Have dinner with us,” invites Luc. “Please.”

“There is nothing I want less,” Honoré tells him.

“No, you want to.”

“I don’t even know where you live,” says Honoré evenly.

“But . . .” Luc stops and Honoré sees when he realizes that, of course, Honoré had never been to his house -- he’d only been to Honoré’s apartment when he’d wanted his dick sucked. Honoré shouldn’t have been surprised he’d disappeared for months. Honoré shouldn’t have made their relationship into something it wasn’t, just because he’d been someone for Luc to talk to.

Honoré should not have ever started calling him Luc.

“Here, I’ll text you the address.” Luc pulls out his phone and starts typing. “Come tonight.”

“You could both speak English,” says Jackson pointedly.

“Your French has always been _fine,_ ” says Honoré _in English_. “You are always such bullshit.”

“I don’t _understand it_ when it’s spoken. I can read it.” Jackson’s face twists. “Same old Honoré.”

“Same old Jackson,” Honoré parries back. 

“You _hated him,_ ” snaps Jackson.

“I hated what he did to you. I don’t care about him.”

“Great,” says Luc. “We’ll talk about this tonight.”

Honoré isn’t too ashamed to watch them leave. Hockey ass is a real thing.

**

Today is not a great day. Honoré goes home and takes a shower and does his hair. It’s gotten long. He remembers Jackson telling him long hair is too gay for hockey. He styles his hair flat with his flatiron. If he’s not careful, it gets wavy. 

He does his eyes like he’s going to war. He wonders if Jacks will remember that he wore glitter on his eyes to the Rasputina concert back in high school. That was the last time they’d seen each other until today. He taps his finger on the glitter pencil and decides to forgo it. Honoré’s a different person now. Jackson’s a different person now. They’re all different people.

Honoré texts Luc: Come pick me up.

He adds emoji of four giant trucks to indicate Luc’s inappropriate road warrior beast.

Luc texts back: OMW babe

What an asshole.

If Honoré scrolls back through their texts, there are so many “OMW babe” texts from Luc, Honoré does not even want to count them. He should have deleted their message thread.

He takes the box of Luc’s shit and goes to sit on his stoop. 

Of course, when Luc’s beast of a truck stops, it’s Jackson at the wheel. 

Honoré scowls at him. “Oliver,” he says coldly, and slides the box between them.

“Don’t be a shit, Honoré,” says Jackson in English. “I think if you’re fucking my husband, you can act like a human being for a while.”

“Are you the one who gave him the lecture that dick sucking is as good as fucking because it takes too long to get an ass ready for fucking and gay guys do things differently?” asks Honoré, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for that.”

“I didn’t tell him it was _as good_ as fucking, just that we do _more_ dick sucking. Shut up. God.” Jackson turns and looks at Honoré at a red light. “What are you even complaining about? He didn’t fuck you enough?”

“Uh, he didn’t fuck me _at all_ , do you not discuss this with him? He’s Monsieur Anal Is Cheating, wouldn’t even finger me.” Honoré forces a laugh and tries to sound casual. “I guess now I know why. I thought he was married to a woman, but he only does anal with you, euh?”

“Jesus, Luc,” mutters Jackson. 

Honoré sits back and stares out the front window. He refuses to look over at Jackson, to study him, to drink him in, no matter how much he desperately wants to. He’s so much bigger now, and his hair is so shiny, and he’s just _beautiful_. Honoré ignores him for the rest of the drive into Sillery. Honoré could have walked, but not with the box, not in the middle of summer, not after his shift.

And he’d been hoping for five minutes alone with Luc to find out what the fuck is going on.

Luc, of course, has a huge, ridiculous house, right near the St. Lawrence, two more cars in his driveway, and chickens in his front yard. Honoré hopes viciously that he gets cited for that.

Jackson keeps looking at Honoré like there’s something to see. Honoré ignores him.

They walk a path to the back of the house, where there’s a weird-looking building, a huge gated backyard full of a garden and more chickens -- some being chased and squawking at Mako -- what must be a chicken coop, and more gardens. They walk past a beautiful sun room and through a back door. 

Honoré is wearing knee high leather steel toed boots over his skinny jeans. He’s not taking them off just because it’s polite. Of course, Jackson’s wearing slides with his track pants that he just kicks off. 

Luc’s house is beautiful and open and all hardwood floors and pale walls and big, squashy-looking couches that anyone could just fall into. He literally lives what would be a fifteen minute walk from Honoré’s apartment, less than a half-hour walk from the university. There was nothing ever keeping Honoré from coming here except that Luc _didn’t want him here_. Honoré has to remember that. 

He drops the box of Luc’s stuff in the middle of what he assumes is the living room because there’s hockey jerseys in frames on the walls around a tv almost as big as he is. 

“I know you’re a ridiculous millionaire,” he says, “but there’s a seventy thousand dollar watch in that box, so, like, don’t lose it.”

“There’s a what,” says Jackson flatly.

“He left it on my sink.” Honoré nudges the box with his foot. 

“Luc!” yells Jackson, moving into another room.

“I hope you’re not letting him cook.” Honoré raises his voice. “I want more than baked chicken and a kale salad.”

“I would give you a carbohydrate too,” says Luc, coming to the doorway. He’s wearing the same track pants as Jackson, but instead of the CHANTAL 38 t-shirt Jackson is wearing, stretched tight across his massive chest and arms (not that Honoré is looking), Luc is shirtless. 

Honoré hates them both.

“I brought back your stuff,” he says stiffly. “Most of it, anyway.”

“My stuff? But . . .” Luc comes into the living room and looks down at the box. “You don’t want Mako coming over anymore?”

“ _You_ broke up with _me_ ,” says Honoré. “I’m just returning your shit.”

“Your _seventy thousand dollar watch_ ,” says Jackson, like Luc is his personal cross to bear. 

Luc crouches down and shows off the patch of black hair that trails down into his ass that Honoré _loves_. When he stands up, he’s holding the watch, and Honoré and Jackson both clear their throats and fold their arms at the same time, then glare at each other.

“I was wondering where this one was!” says Luc. “Thanks, bruh!”

“It was in my bathroom. Since April.” Honoré unfolds his arms and sticks his hands in his pockets. 

Luc looks bewildered. “Yeah, sounds right. So? I would have seen you this week or next, it’s time to start training.”

“It’s time to start training,” repeats Honoré.

“Oh god,” says Jackson.

“Yeah,” says Luc, like Honoré is the one with the problem. “I’m probably training here again this year, so I’ll be around. I don’t understand . . . like . . .” He looks over at Jackson. “Stop laughing.”

Jackson is red in the face. “So, Honoré, welcome to Luc Chantal. He didn’t break up with you, he just assumed you already knew everything there was to know about his life.”

“How could I possibly know _anything_ about his life?” Honoré sighs. “Luc. I do not _mind_ being broken up with.” Lie. “Just do it quickly, take your stuff back, try to not be an asshole where I work.”

“I’m _not_ breaking up with you. We weren’t _dating_.” Luc looks at Jackson again. “We weren’t dating, Jacks, I swear.”

“You are right, we weren’t.” Honoré is going to cry. “We had nothing. There is nothing to break. I am leaving. See you at Le Café.”

“Jesus Christ, Luc,” swears Jackson behind Honoré, but Honoré doesn’t hear the rest, already stumbling through the house, out the door, and into the bright light of sunset.

**

The walk home through old Québec City is beautiful. And hot. Honoré wishes he hadn’t worn the knee high leather boots, even though he knows they look kick-ass with the tight jeans and the lace shirt.

**

Jackson is sitting on Honoré’s stoop with two bottles of water. He hands one to Honoré. 

“Let’s do this just you and me,” he says. “Like, if you can tolerate speaking to me in English for fifteen minutes.”

“How do you like Thai food?” asks Honoré, and lets him into the cool darkness of the building.

Honoré lets Jackson pick whatever he wants from the online menu, adds his usual, and then sits down to take his boots off. Jackson puts out his hand and rubs his fingers over the leather below where Honoré is unlacing.

“These aren’t the same ones you had in high school,” he states.

“No. Same brand, though.”

Jackson nods and watches silently as Honoré unlaces all the way down to pull them off. He pulls off his socks, too. He can’t keep his apartment cold enough to suit. The only reason he ever turned up his heat in the winter was because Luc liked it hot; Honoré was happy being chilly.

He takes in a slow breath and lets it out. Then another. 

“Why are you here?” he asks Jackson. 

“Luc cares about you. He didn’t mean to fuck everything up.”

“Incorrect. I was an easy way to get his dick sucked by someone who didn’t give a shit that he plays hockey.” Honoré rubs his palm on his knee. “He made that very clear and I kept not . . . understanding. Not . . . I don’t know how to say it.”

“Say it in French, it’s okay.”

“No, I mean -- I don’t know -- I kept _pretending_ ,” says Honoré disgustedly. “But there was no more there for Luc than what it was.”

Jackson twists a little to face Honoré. “You need to know that there’s not . . . there’s _never_ more there for Chants, okay? It’s all bros and blowjobs, that’s it. Like, he doesn’t handle things the way we do. There’s no handholding and romantic dinners and shit. That’s not his thing. He won’t send you texts that say _I love you_ just because he remembers your face and wants you to know. The fact that he was sleeping with you for like _eight months_ and didn’t get bored is basically as romantic as he gets. That he thought he was gonna leave and then come back to you is -- that’s him dating you.”

“He literally just said to you that he wasn’t dating me. Were we standing in the same room, Jackson?” Honoré shakes his head.

“That’s because he has a weird idea about what’s cheating on me and what’s not, not because he is not actually dating you. He’s dating you. I’m not insecure about it. I’ve known he was dating his tea guy for months now. Since at least the Lemieux thing. No guy he wasn’t dating would have stuck around through that. I kept trying to get him to tell me more about you, too, to introduce us, something. Like, if I hadn’t moved here, we probably never would have met, that asshole,” says Jackson fondly. “But I liked that he had someone here looking out for him, who really cared about _him_.”

“He never even told you my _name._ ”

“He always called you ‘my tea guy.’ It was cute.” Jackson shrugs. “Look, if you want a guy who’s gonna be a fucking romantic, you are definitely -- like, that’s not Chants. But he’ll always have your back and be there if you need him.”

“What does it matter now? You’re here.”

“Yeah, I’m here, I got traded, but that doesn’t mean he’s -- like --” Jackson shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “Look, I don’t know. He’s not made to be monogamous, I can’t even _imagine it_.”

The buzzer goes before Honoré can say anything. He silently distributes their food and offers Jackson a fork. Jackson eats exactly the way Honoré remembers: with single-minded purpose until the food is entirely gone. It is completely different from the way Luc has to force himself to take every single bite, clearly reminding himself every time that food is fuel.

Honoré watches, cataloging Jackson’s changes and hating himself.

“The first time I sucked Luc off,” he says, as Jackson finishes a second container of spicy duck and rice, “I kept thinking about you. How much I wished you were there. How I wished I could trade places with you so you could have it. This whole time I’ve felt like I’ve been betraying you, wondering if I should try to get in touch with you. Why are you even here? What are you trying to convince me . . . to give Luc a chance to what? Suck my cock again? For why? You’re here -- you think I don’t remember how good it was to suck your cock? Luc will be happy with that. You don’t need me too.”

Jackson sets down the container and wipes his mouth on a napkin. His mouth is so pink. Honoré has fond memories of that mouth. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s just never moved on and he should have. He should have found someone who was the least hideous of everyone in his cohort and had an affair with _him_.

“You think Luc wasn’t excited to get back here and see you again? Introduce us? He’s been my best friend since we were seven -- I know when he’s into someone. Eventually he’ll get Crash up here and you’ll meet her, too, and you’ll see that he -- he collects people. You think if he’s not sucking your dick we’re going to be monogamous? I have a guy in Philly. A couple of guys in other places. We travel for work, I might see them and hook up if we feel like it. We’re back in California, there’s no way he doesn’t hook up with Crash, spend the night in his surf house.”

“Avocados,” says Honoré quietly.

“Right. He’s not inviting you to be the only one. You’re just gonna get a place in the top six forwards, you know?”

“You’re going to make me listen to you speak English _and_ terrible hockey metaphors?”

Jackson grins at him, his eyes crinkling up all the way, the gap in his smile somehow sweet instead of horrible and annoying. “You knew what I was talking about, though.”

“Between you talking hockey at me in high school and Luc this past year, I am well schooled in your awful sport.” Honoré sighs. “It is my burden.”

“Yeah, your life seems pretty hard.” Jackson touches his arm. “Hey. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. I’ll tell Chants to lay off you, we’ll find him a new tea place, whatever.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jackson.” Honoré wants to press his fingers to his eyes, but he can’t -- makeup -- so he presses his hands to the tops of his knees instead. “Don’t expect that you’ll always be able to get Chantal out of trouble by explaining his feelings for him.”

“Get used to it.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “Also, now you have to tell me what you do to the baked chicken that makes it so amazing, because mine apparently doesn’t measure up, and Chants is an annoying fucker about it.”

“It’s called _herbs_ , Jackson,” says Honoré longsufferingly, and proceeds to detail all the ways Luc’s cooking is the worst.

**


	2. Part II

When Jacks gets home, he just wants to crawl into bed. He is fucking exhausted with all the drama that Luc never told him about. That Luc probably never _noticed_. And from seeing Honoré again.

It was . . . fucking weird.

Jacks leaves his slides at the back door and goes straight upstairs to bed, thinking he’ll skip debriefing with Luc tonight -- but Luc is already in bed, balls out, Mako sprawled next to him, busily typing on his phone with the lights low. Jacks leans against the doorjamb.

“You,” he says.

Luc looks up and busts out one of the killer smiles that Jacks never gets tired of seeing.

“ _You_ ,” Luc says. “I thought I wasn’t gonna see you again tonight.”

“Why’d you think that?” Jacks starts stripping, dropping everything into the laundry basket -- and, on his way, picking up Luc’s scattered clothes and dropping them in too. 

“You know. You, Honoré, seeing each other again. I thought, like, you’d stay there tonight, probably. I was waiting for a text.” Luc shakes his phone. “You don’t even look like he sucked your dick.”

“He did not suck my dick.” Jacks groans. “Luc. What.” He crawls up the other side of the bed from Mako. Unlike Luc, he thinks it’s weird to be naked with her next to him. She has her own bed for a reason!

Luc looks confused. “But . . . you were together in high school and when he left, you went after him, so . . . you still care?”

“I care about him as a human being. And I told you -- you hurt him a lot, and someone needed to explain to him that you’re . . . you. That you weren’t being a dick on purpose, that you just don’t get romantic stuff.”

“I do that shit with the flowers.”

“Sending me flowers on President’s Day doesn’t make you romantic,” groans Jacks. “We’re not even American.”

“I just don’t _get it_.” Luc tosses his phone down between them. “What did he -- what was he _looking for_ that I wasn’t _giving him_? He seemed happy. He was never like, bro, this isn’t working for me, you’re a dick.”

“Right, because he thought you were doing shit like avoiding him on Valentine’s Day on purpose to keep your relationship casual.” Jacks sighs.

“I didn’t avoid him on Valentine’s Day.” Luc sounds so puzzled. “I was with you.”

“But you didn’t _tell him that_ , so he figured you were just avoiding him.” Jacks flips over onto his stomach. “Can we have this conversation tomorrow? I am . . . I really am exhausted from this. It was a lot of other people’s feelings to deal with.”

“I mean, yeah.” Luc’s hand comes down on his head. “I just . . . I mean, I feel like an asshole, bro. This whole time I’ve been being a dick and didn’t know?”

“Well, it wasn’t like Honoré was talking about his feelings with you either.” Jacks rubs his head on Luc’s hand until Luc starts petting his hair, and then he sighs into his pillow. “And that’s probably something you really liked.”

“It was easy,” admits Luc.

“Yeah,” murmurs Jacks. “And now it’s going to get hard.”

**

Jacks judges how much of a dick Luc feels like he’s been by what he eats for breakfast. Luc clearly feels fine because he eats two avocados, a bowl of steel cut oats, and a vanilla protein shake. He’s been onto this new hemp protein powder for a while now, and he stirs it into his oatmeal, but doesn’t try to stir it into Jacks’. He makes Jacks a protein shake with it, though. It’s grainy but it doesn’t have the metallic, chalky taste of whey. 

He sips it at the kitchen table between bites of fruit and watches Luc eat.

“If you’re waiting to yell at me about Honoré, you can just go ahead,” Luc says around a bite of the second avocado. “I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

“You did the same thing with him that you did with Svetlana, but you did it for like eight months instead of two.”

“Yeah, I fucked around with him. I told you when we started and got permission so it wasn’t cheating, and . . .” Luc trails off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “ _What?_ ”

“When you broke up with Svets and you were like, why can’t everyone just be bros, and I was like, you have to _tell people_ that you are just bros . . . were you even listening?” Jacks drains his shake. “Just because it’s fucking awkward doesn’t mean you don’t still have to have the conversation with people where you’re like, look, this is just bros, I don’t do romance.”

“I am so good at romance. You love your flowers,” challenges Luc.

“Chants. You suck at romance. You don’t understand it. It’s cool, it’s a thing, it’s called aromantic --”

“I know it’s cool, you love me for who I am --”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to help you not be a dick.”

Luc slumps back in his chair. “Sorry, Oli.”

“Honoré did not do everything right either. He should have talked to you too. But you needed to tell him what you wanted, and you never did. So now he feels like shit and you have to apologize and explain that you were never looking for a boyfriend even though you accidentally acquired one.”

“He was never my boyfriend.” Luc leans forward across the table and grabs Jacks’ arm. “I’m telling you, I never cheated. You’re the only guy I want, Jacks. I told you that and I wasn’t lying.”

“Chants, what the fuck are you talking about? How many months did you spend sucking his dick? You clearly want him. I get it, he’s hot. It’s not like he’s a replacement for me. I don’t -- I’m not following your logic here. It’s okay to want to fuck more than one guy. Do you feel replaced because I sleep with other dudes?”

“No, but -- but I told you I’m not . . . I told you you’re it for me, and that I don’t bother with other guys because why would I when they’re not you. Honoré was just . . . I just wanted a blowjob that day and then . . . I don’t even know how it happened. It was just -- he doesn’t bullshit me like everyone else. He doesn’t care that I’m Luc Chantal, you know? Everyone else does. Even Svets.”

“Luc,” says Jacks softly. “I never . . . held you to that. I never thought that was a promise. I understood what you were saying when you said that, but I never thought you were promising forever and for all time to never find another man attractive. Like -- what about Dre. You told me he was hot.”

“But I didn’t fuck him.”

“But you would have.”

“Maybe, if you’d been there.”

Jacks shakes his head. “That’s . . . not the point. Like, what are you always saying about biology and shit? Once you realized you were bisexual, it was just a matter of time before you started finding men attractive and let yourself take advantage of that.”

“I didn’t want to. I only want to find you attractive.”

Jacks takes Luc’s hand and squeezes it. “You’re my number one, too. But I’m glad you had Honoré -- for the Mario thing. To feed you. To keep you warm. I know you don’t like to be alone or go without sex. Why should you? But you treated him like shit and you have to know that.”

Luc squeezes Jacks’ hand back and doesn’t let go. “Did I really? Because it’s not like he ever wanted to do boyfriend shit with me.”

“Would you even _realize it_ if he did?”

“I -- I don’t know, dude. What’s boyfriend shit?”

“I don’t know. I mean, for him. But some of what he told me about last night was shit he used to do for me when we were in high school and I know he really wanted . . . I mean . . .”

“Secret boyfriends,” says Luc tauntingly. 

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Did he make you those protein balls? Were you his athlete ex?” asks Luc. “Oh shit. The avocados with seeds? The spicy chicken?”

“He fed me all the time,” Jacks confirms. “Whatever you ate, I probably ate it first when we were fifteen.”

“Honoré is so fucked up,” says Luc wonderingly. “We should have a threesome and blow his mind.”

Jacks ignores that. “If you want to keep seeing him, you should apologize,” he says. “And do something nice for him.”

“I could pay his tuition or something. Buy him a car? Oh, he should come with us to Tahiti and meet Crash!”

“Right,” says Jacks, who had been thinking of flowers and music, maybe fancy tea. “Tahiti sounds good.”

*

me: is this still honore?

When the reply is “I am so honored that Jackson has descended to the mortal plane and is texting me again,” Jacks changes the unicorn head emoji that represented Honoré in his phone for the whole time they knew each other in high school to just his name. 

me: Luc wants to invite you to Tahiti with us in August. So if you don’t want to come can you tell me now so I can start talking him out of it?

Honoré: What is in Tahiti?

me: surfing competition with Crash

Honoré: why me

me: you know why you

Honoré: come to Le Café. I want to see you.

me: me? You want to see me?

Honoré: Do not play dumb Jackson.

me: I’ll come after today’s workout.

Honoré: I get off at 2.

The next time Jacks’ phone buzzes, he sees Honoré has added like six rainbows and a couple of lightning bolts.

*

Honoré’s bed is so soft, it’s like a cloud. Jacks feels like he’s falling off it even when he’s lying perfectly still with Honoré curled up on top of him, stuck to him with sweat and jizz. The a/c clicks on and the air starts swirling around. Jacks shivers. Honoré murmurs nothing, and puts a hand on his stomach. 

“Your dick is actually even bigger than I remember,” says Honoré drowsily. “How is that possible?”

“I’m not fifteen?” says Jacks. “Hold up.” He sits up and grabs for the blanket at the end of the bed, pulls it over them, pulls Honoré back to him. 

“Mmm.”

Honoré’s head is heavy on Jacks’ shoulder, but the weight is nice. Luc is not always a cuddler. He’s a get up and go kind of guy a lot of the time. Sometimes Jacks just wants to hold someone and _not_ have it be right before they fall asleep. Not that Jacks wants to change Luc. He’s just . . . enjoying this. 

“Does it bother you that I haven’t been pining for you since high school or something?” asks Jacks. 

Honoré sighs noisily. “I haven’t been pining for you either, _darling,_ ” he replies. “Do you have to ruin everything?”

“You missed me.”

“You missed _me._. Or am I just convenient?”

“Will you be pissed if I say a little of both?’

“Yes.”

“Will you be pissed if I lie?”

“Yes.” Honoré kisses his collarbone. “You cannot win, Jackson. Give up now.”

“I’m only here for the hot sex. You never told me I’d have to talk.” Jacks laughs when Honoré digs his fingers into his ribs.

Honoré straddles him and looks down, their bodies so different from high school, but still -- Honoré is pale and hairless; Jacks is pale and red-gold. Honoré’s muscles are lean and barely there; Jacks is . . . ridiculous, he knows, compared to a normal person. The way Honoré touches him is nice -- hands everywhere, just a little too hard to be gentle.

“You’re beautiful,” Honoré tells him, casual, unimportant. “I tried to never see you -- fake you.”

“Fake me?”

“Hockey you. Short hair and too many muscles and I always worried I’d see you with a woman . . . Faque c’est ça.” He takes a deep breath.

“Je n’ai jamais eu des blondes . . . de même de toute ma vie,” says Jacks slowly, translating in his head. 

“ _De même_ ,” drawls Honoré. “ _Jamais_.”

“You’re still such an asshole. I’m saying it right.”

“You’re saying it right because you speak French, yet you make me talk to you in this horrid English.” As he’s talking, Honoré leans down, and presses a kiss against Jacks’ mouth, and while he’s bent over, he arranges them so their soft dicks are aligned. Jacks’ hips jerk automatically and Honoré laughs into his mouth, letting his fingers slowly move down, over Jacks’ balls. 

The first time had been fast and hard, jerking them off together. Jizz is flaking off Jacks’ stomach, Honoré’s chest. 

“Let me stay and fuck you right,” Jacks murmurs into his mouth, grateful the subject is changed. “Let me fuck you.”

“Hm,” says Honoré. “Let me think about it. Yes, of course, stay.”

“Let me get on top. Let me touch you.”

“No. Stay where I put you. You are lucky I don’t chain you up.”

Jacks’ whole body shivers under Honoré.

“Oh really?” Honoré sits back and looks down at him. “You’re buying the chains. I want the nice ones, the ones that will really hold you. The good ones. Leather.”

“Yes,” says Jacks. “Ouais.”

*

“Honoré is still not talking to me,” whines Luc. No, that’s not fair. He doesn’t whine it at all, he says it while deadlifting almost 300 pounds. 

It’s just that Jacks also has to listen to Honoré snipe about Luc and then refuse to discuss what happened. 

“Can you give it more than a week?” Jacks is doing legs, which means he’s also doing abs, which is hard fucking work. He’d rather not be having a heart to heart about his husband’s boyfriend. And his boyfriend. Their shared boyfriend. “He’s already said he’ll come to Tahiti.”

“That’s in _a month._ I want him to talk to me before a month.” Luc puts down the weights and stares at them.

“One: no, do not add more weight. You’re not trying to up your max today. Two: is this about talking or is this about fucking? Go find a nice girl to fuck and get it out of your system.” Jacks huffs. He’d rather be doing, like, the medicine ball workouts right now. At least then Luc couldn’t be trying to have a _married conversation_ in the middle of the practice arena.

“It’s _weird_ , okay, _I miss him_ , and I don’t mean to, but sometimes I’m like . . . I want to talk to Honoré about stuff, that’s all.”

Pendowski, who just walked in, looks from one of them to the other. “I don’t know who Honoré is but it sounds like maybe I should leave,” he offers.

“No, kid,” huffs Jacks. “Chants is just being extra extra today. Stay, we’re gonna skate after this.”

“I’m not skating today,” Pendowski says, and gets a _look_ from Luc. “I mean, I hadn’t planned to?”

“We’re all skating today, everyone who shows up,” says Jacks, before Luc can. “ _So don’t max out on anything_.”

Even though Jacks doesn’t have an A or anything, Pendowski listens. So does Luc.

*

_Luc misses you_ , he texts to Honoré that night, sprawled in front of the TV with Chants. They’re watching an incredibly boring documentary on the kind of big wave surfing Crash does that has Luc texting angrily with Crash about the patriarchy.

_Please repeat that in French_ , Honoré chirps back.

_I’m coming over_. Jacks kisses Mako on the head, and then reaches above her for Luc, who says, “Can you _believe_ this _bullshit!_ ”

“I totally cannot,” says Jacks, kissing the top of Luc’s head exactly like he kissed Mako.

“Fucking _thank you,_ ” grumbles Luc, face still in his phone. 

Honoré can’t hold Jacks down the way Luc can, but he makes a good try of it, pushing Jacks’ face into the pillows, kneeing his legs apart, being _rough_ and not apologizing for the way his nails dig in and the bite he leaves on the back of Jacks’ neck. It’s easy to feel weak and let Honoré take charge after the day’s workout; it’s easy to get lost in how good it feels and not fight against it. It’s easy to listen to Honoré call him Oliver and not feel like this is kind of fucked up -- to just feel good.

After, he cleans out Honoré’s fridge -- eats all six eggs, with Honoré’s little container of creme fraiche mixed in, capers, the tiniest jar of caviar he’s ever seen, just enough to make everything a little salty, plus half the bag of baby carrots with the last of Honoré’s white bean hummus, plus a container of olives and feta cheese that’s not even half full. Jacks makes a note to himself to figure out how to get groceries to Honoré without being a dick about it.

“I would have made protein balls,” says Honoré, perched on the table in a pair of lacy panties and nothing else. 

“I’d rather eat your balls,” says Jacks. He pushes away the empty plates and containers and raises his eyebrows. 

“Such dirty talk.” Honoré lies down on the table. “Don’t think I’ll do anything you want just because I let you do whatever you want to me.”

“Don’t worry. I would never think you’re easy,” says Jacks wryly, and gets a finger under the waistband of the panties. Shit, Honoré looks so good like this. 

*

_Just so you know_ , Jacks texts, and then feels stupid. But he already started and now he has to finish. _I’m going out of town with Luc this weekend. I’ll be gone for five days._

_That’s more than a weekend, lover._

_It’s our weekend. Before Tahiti and training._

_I’m not jealous. Have fun._

Jacks sighs and presses a fist to his stomach. Maybe he expected Honoré to be jealous and now he’s disappointed? Maybe he doesn’t really believe Honoré is not jealous. He should go by Le Café and see Honoré’s _face_. If this means anything.

Does it mean anything?

He doesn’t know. 

He wishes they would _talk_. He wishes he wasn’t the only one seeing Honoré. He and Luc could see him together, or they could trade off days -- something that could make this feel less like Jacks abandons Luc on the nights he’s gone, even though he knows Luc doesn’t feel _abandoned_. He Skypes with Crash and sometimes goes out with ‘Diques guys and works in the garden. _Works in the garden_. Jacks doesn’t even know what he does in the garden. Maybe he talks to the plants. Tells them to be better, lectures them on the patriarchy, and offers their soil to the hockey gods.

Where the poster of Lemieux used to be on their bedroom wall, there’s now a poster of a statue of Yemanja, sent from Crash. There’s a post-it note still stuck on it that says “KILL YOUR GODS” in her round, no-nonsense handwriting. Jacks looked Yemanja up one day -- well, that sounds more intense than what he did, which was lie on the bed and google her. There was a bunch of Catholic shit and some heathen shit -- perfectly Crash -- but what Jacks took away from it was basically the goddess of creation -- water, motherhood, shipwreck survivors, and moonlight. 

Luc is like a shipwreck survivor. Metaphorically. Hockey is all about water. Ice. Jacks gets it. Kind of. 

Jacks is glad Luc met him first, because otherwise Crash would be Luc’s soulmate and Jacks would be . . . somewhere else. Maybe married to Honoré and doing something really gay in theatre or writing. 

If Jacks listened to Luc . . . if Jacks listened to Luc, Jacks wouldn’t even exist, because the hockey gods created Jacks and sent him to Luc. 

If Luc had met Crash first, Jacks probably wouldn’t exist.

Jacks puts his phone down, kisses his fingers, and touches them to the poster of Yemanja. Just in case.

Then he gets up to pack. They’re going to New Brunswick, so he won’t need a lot, but they’ll need a bunch of shit for Mako that Luc won’t remember because Luc will be busy remembering to pack eight different watches and ten snapbacks for five days.

*

Two days into the vacation in New Brunswick and Jacks is ready to go back to QC. Luc and Mako run twenty miles every day -- in the seventy thousand dollar watch Grant bought for Luc, a beautiful piece of rose gold that cannot possibly be made to withstand sweaty hockey player. Not even reminding Luc he’s supposed to be _bulking_ stops him. 

In the afternoons they visit parents and eat as much as they can stand, which for Luc is not nearly enough, and for Jacks is plenty, but it’s not _interesting_ : listening to his stepbrother talk about dentistry and his stepfather talk about violence in hockey and his mom try to play peacekeeper is too much for five minutes much less five hours. Luc’s family is better because his parents are back from a dig and have good stories to tell, but Luc gets bored quickly and leaves the table to run around with Mako, and then Jacks gets interrogated about everything from Luc’s general health (okay, fine) to Luc’s mental health (okayyyyyy) to when they plan to adopt (no, stop, please) to that nice young lady Crash (oh god) to perhaps that nice young lady Crash could be a surrogate for them (LUC WE NEED TO LEAVE) to --

They spend the third day having sex until they’re both bruised, sore, and fucked out, which is beautiful. Jacks genuinely loves rough, dirty sex, and he has the best rough, dirty sex with Luc. 

He does not have the best post-sex conversations with Luc:

"Do you think we infringed on Mako's rights as a woman when we spayed her without her permission?"

Jacks groans and rolls over onto his stomach to grab his phone. “No, Chants, I do not. Animals get spayed. It’s, like, science. That’s your thing.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been talking a lot about the patriarchy and oppressing women with Crash.”

“Ask Crash, then. She’ll have the right answer.”

“Good point.” Luc reaches for his phone, too, his hand slapping Jacks’ ass on the way. Jacks rolls his hips while Luc is over him. Just because they’re fucked out doesn’t mean Jacks ever has to stop rubbing against Luc’s body. 

Like, just kill him if he ever wants to stop rubbing against Luc’s body.

“I have a million snaps,” mumbles Luc, mostly to himself.

“I have a text from Honoré,” replies Jacks, a little louder.

“Is it . . . for me?” asks Luc, leaning over.

“He says, ‘I’m watching the dumbest Gatorade commercial ever filmed.’” Jacks laughed. “I guess that means he’s never seen that one with Crosby from when we were kids.”

Luc leans on top of Jacks and hooks his chin over Jack’s shoulder. His beard is scratchy, his chest hair is scratchy, and Jacks feels amazing.

_I have the funniest fucking story about that Gatorade commercial that maybe I’ll tell you,_ types Jacks. 

_I’ve already signed an NDA_ , comes the text from Honoré.

Jacks side eyes Luc. “You didn’t.”

“It was the _first day_ ,” protests Luc. “I mean -- the first blowjob day.”

Jacks sighs noisily. “You wanna watch the commercial with me?”

“Oh my god, no,” says Luc, and rolls off Jacks. “I’m gonna shower and take Mako out. Why would you _want_ to watch that thing?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” says Jacks. He switches to the YouTube app on his phone and types in “Chantal Jackson Gatorade Commercial” and what Honoré is talking about is the first thing that comes up. 

They found cute little kids to play Luc and Jacks through the years, and have them skating around, the Jacks kid always saving a blue Gatorade to share with the Luc kid, even up through the Q. The actors don’t look much like them, but they don’t need to -- the implication is there. At the end, it’s Jacks and Luc in the Team Canada locker room, with Jacks handing Luc a half finished blue Gatorade, fake sweat dripping off him, both of them wearing Team Canada jerseys, Jacks wiping his mouth off, Luc tilting back his head to drink the Gatorade. It’s fucking Gatorade porn. Then it cuts to them hugging on the ice after the gold medal Olympics win, then it cuts to them wearing their gold medals. Gatorade porn and, oh, god, the first time Jacks read the script for it, his palms started sweating. 

_Did you watch that Gatorade commercial and think: Gatorade: look at these guys they are brothers?_ Jacks texts Honoré. _I read the script for it and thought, oh my god this is going to out us to all of Canada._

It takes like fifteen minutes to get a reply, the three dots consistently there. Honoré is clearly typing a mother of an answer. But then all Jacks gets from him is: _It’s pretty fucking gay._

_I stopped everything and called our lawyer and freaked the fuck out about how if it ever got out that we were married, this would be like number one on a buzzfeed list somewhere about how gay we were and Gatorade would pull our sponsorships, and Gatorade had to sign a shitload of NDAs and contracts about how they’re cool with us being married and will keep being our sponsors even if we’re the first out gay guys in the NHL._ Jacks sends the text. _Then Luc kind of looked up from his phone and was like, Oli, you worry SO much. Chillax._

_Chillax._

_CHILLAX._

_I love this story._

_Even though it’s in English?_

_I forgive you its failures_.

*

Day four they have a cookout and the neighborhood comes. They play at being good old neighborhood boys, back from the NHL, and of course it works. People see what they want to see. Jacks tries not to wonder if Honoré misses him and Luc, tries to be present in the moment: play with little kids, break down why the Flyers didn’t go all the way to the Cup finals with their parents, remember the names of guys who he played on a line with ten years ago. It’s exhausting.

Guys who were his brothers ten years ago are car salesmen with kids now. They look at Jacks and Luc like adoring fans, not like they’ve known each other since they were seven.

Jacks locks himself in the bathroom and texts, _I miss you_ to Honoré. Texts, _I need you to work this out with Luc_. Texts, _Tell me this isn’t going to blow up._

He gets back a picture of Honoré’s dick, hard in purple lace panties, Honoré’s black fingernails shockingly perfect against the lace. 

_Now I have to find Chants and blow him good job asshole_ , sends Jacks, and turns his ringer off.

Jacks finds Luc talking to two guys they played Pee Wee with, and tows him away, saying something about the grill, but doesn’t stop towing until they’re in the master bathroom and the door is locked.

“Euh,” says Luc. “What’s this now, Oli, we have guests.” But he’s grinning and he flips Jacks’ snapback around so it’s backward, and he leans against the sink with his legs spread. “Come on, suck me off and make it good, I’m missing some quality stories about kindergarteners.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Jacks tells him, and puts down a towel for his knees. There’s no one in the world better at sucking Chants’ dick than Jacks, and he puts it to work, getting thick dick into his throat, choking himself until his eyes water. He uses one of his hands to play with Luc’s hairy balls and the other to jack Luc off while he sucks hard on the head, and Luc is -- fucking playing with his phone.

Jacks sits back on his heels, slowly jacking Luc’s cock with spit. “Hey, dickbag,” he says. “I’m down here?”

“I’m just taking pictures of your pretty face, Oli,” croons Luc. “Smile for Honoré.”

Jacks puts up his middle finger and goes back down on Luc’s dick, ignoring him. He just wanted dick in his mouth anyway. Who cares what Chants is doing. Then he hears a phone ringing, and Honoré’s voice: “Allo? Chantal? Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”

“Je veux que tu soies ici,” says Luc, not even breathless, what a dick. “I can’t believe you still don’t have Snapchat. Did you get my texts?”

“Very pretty,” snaps Honoré. “What --”

“He’s making noises. I thought you’d like to hear, since you didn’t come.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You wouldn’t have come to New Brunswick, don’t even try,” says Luc dismissively. “There’s a hundred people from our old neighborhood in our backyard right now. How many of them do you want to see.”

“None,” says Honoré, clearly begrudgingly.

“But you want to see _us_.” Luc is not magnanimous in victory, just a dick. “Listen to Jacks suck on my dick, mon chum. That’ll be you in a few days.”

“I’m not sucking your dick, Chantal.” Honoré doesn’t even sound mad anymore. They’re doing this just for _fun_ , Jacks thinks, and rolls his eyes, taking Luc in deeper, finally making him groan. “Sounds like Jackson is more than you can handle.”

“So come handle him with me,” invites Luc. “You should see him, his face is all red, his mouth is open, he’s the best fucking porn. He’s the only porn I’ve ever bothered with.”

“I love when his face gets red,” admits Honoré. “I like to choke him. You should choke him.”

“Like with my _hand?_ ” asks Luc. “Holy shit.”

Jacks nods at the same time Honoré says tauntingly, “Afraid your hand is too small, Chantal?”

“Afraid I’m gonna kill my husband in our bathroom!”

“Choke him with your cock,” says Honoré and Jacks sucks Luc’s dick as far in as he can take it, going down to Luc’s furriness and moans encouragingly. Luc puts a hand on Jacks’ head and holds him there, then farther, then farther, until Jacks is really choking, really can’t breathe, and it feels so good. If he meditated, he could meditate, just like this. Float away on a cloud of dick. 

“Oh fuck,” whispers Luc. “Oli, oh fuck, oh fuck, you should see yourself, you look, oh fuck, take it, come on, do it --” His hips pulse into Jacks, forcing his dick deeper, fucking him into Jacks’ face perfectly.

“You should come, Luc,” says Honoré. “Come down his throat, let him take you.”

And Luc _does_.

There are black spots in Jacks’ vision when Luc finally pulls away, a string of spit connecting them, Honoré’s voice in the background talking to Luc in French that Jacks can’t understand. Jacks lies down on the bathroom tile, taking slow, steady breaths in through his nose, just like getting through a bad hit on the ice. His dick is so hard, he puts a hand over it and presses through his shorts and it _hurts_. 

The light is too bright so he shuts his eyes and focuses on breathing.

“I’m just wiping you up, Oli,” says Luc softly, and then there’s a gentle touch of a washrag on his face. And neck. “You’re gonna have to change shirts, this one’s all wet. Let’s get it off.”

Jacks lets Luc undress him. There’s a weird pause where Jacks can feel Luc standing over him, looking down, and when he opens his eyes, it’s because Luc is taking a picture.

“For Honoré,” Luc says briefly. “You look hot all fucked out.”

“I haven’t been fucked yet,” Jacks manages.

“Honoré says not until tonight.” Luc comes back with one of his awful t-shirts but Jacks slips it on anyway. “I promised him.” Luc slips his hand into Jacks’ shorts and gives his dick a quick grope. “You have to hold it.”

“You’re both assholes,” says Jacks, but curls into Luc’s body for a minute and doesn’t touch his dick at all.

*

That night they set up an iPad and call Honoré on Skype. Jacks is already spread out on the bed, jerking off with a handful of lube. He figures he’ll probably fuck Luc and Honoré will make snippy comments and that’ll be that. He doesn’t want to think about it too much, because it’s freaking him out a little. He and Luc have only had one threesome so far, and it was mostly Luc watching while Jacks sucked off Mike Richards on a fishing boat. Luc sucked him a little, but Jacks really _wanted it_ , and Luc likes to watch, they learned.

Jacks groans when he thinking about that afternoon. They’d even caught fucking fish. “Let me take you boys fishing” hadn’t even been a euphemism. 

“No,” snaps Honoré. “Why is he touching himself. No! I did not say you could. I do not allow. Chantal!”

Luc comes in from the bathroom, naked except for a snapback and his watch. Jacks kind of wants to die at how fucking hot Luc is and how much of a douche he looks like. 

“Get over here, Chants, and put your dick in me,” demands Jacks. 

“Shut up, Jackson,” says Honoré. “I’m in charge.”

“I think I’m in charge,” says Luc, “since I’m doing the dicking tonight. Honoré’s right, Jacks, better stop jerking off. Don’t come.”

“I want to come _now_ and then _again_ ,” says Jacks insistently.

“And I want you to hold it,” says Luc, “don’t you want to do this for me?”

Jacks lifts his hand off his dick reluctantly and puts it above his head.

Honoré says something rapidfire in French, too fast for Jacks to follow, and Luc replies, and they go back and forth, and it’s fucking embarrassing as hell that it makes Jacks’ dick harder listening to them talk.

Finally Luc looks Jacks up and down and says, “Okay, mon chum, on your knees and elbows. I want your ass.”

Luc eats him out forever, giving his ass beard burn. Jacks loves it, loves the way Luc’s face scratches him while Luc stretches him out. He can take Luc’s dick with some lube and a bit of shoving, but the extended prep is nice and obviously Luc is trying to fuck with him, get him riled up. Honoré’s dirty talk in the background is nice too.

Luc’s version of dirty talk is “I love you so much, you’re so beautiful, you’re mine, you’re mine, you belong to me.” Honoré is much more straight up, “you’re a gorgeous cockslut, suck my dick.”

Having them both at the same time is amazing and Jacks is going to come all over himself without even touching his dick.

Jacks can tell Luc is getting ready -- because he just knows and also because Honoré hisses. “No condom?” he asks.

“We never bother,” Luc says.

“Crisse des folles,” says Honoré, but Jacks would put all the money in the world down that Honoré can’t take his eyes off them.

“He can take my fist,” says Luc, and there’s so much more pressure than just Luc’s dick, Jacks lets out a whine. He doesn’t even know where it came from, he couldn’t stop it from coming out of his mouth. “He loves this. You love this, don’t you, Oli. Tell Honoré.”

Jacks opens his mouth to say it, but he can’t, he just whines again instead, because Luc is _doing something_ and Jacks can feel the pressure and the stretch and a burn. It _feels_ like when Luc was fisting him, that perfect moment of _all sensation_ \-- but Luc’s dick is not this big.

“You like that, eh, Oli, you like two fingers? You want three? Four?”

“Oh, give him four fingers,” says Honoré eagerly. “Four of your fingers, that’s my dick.”

Jacks lets his head drop between his arms. Oh, oh, oh god, Luc is stretching him open. 

“Feel that, Oli? Feels good, right? That’s it, mon beau mari, let me in, next you’ll have me _and_ Honoré, both our dicks in there, stretch you open and fuck you together, that’s it, I know how you like it . . .”

“I wish I could see his face,” sighs Honoré. “He must look amazing.”

“He’s beautiful,” says Luc.

Jacks can’t catch his breath. He’s stretched so wide and it feels so good, and now he just wants to be _fucked_.

“It’s so tight,” says Luc. “You’re so tight, Oli. Can you take it if I fuck you like this? With my fingers inside.”

Jacks groans. “Yes. Fuck me, come on,” he demands.

He gets what he wants, and comes listening to Honoré laugh delightedly. 

*

Luc plays with his hole all night, takes pictures and sends them to Honoré, and Jacks loves it.

*

“You going over to Honoré tonight?” asks Luc casually as they’re unloading the car.

“I don’t know,” says Jacks. He unlocks front door that they hardly ever use to bring their shit in from the car. “You want me home?”

“Nah. Go see your guy.”

Jacks counts to ten before he follows Luc into the house. “ _Our_ guy, Chants. Our guy.”

“He’s still not talking to me.”

Jacks opens his mouth to point out that Honoré and Luc did not _stop_ talking the night before. Of course, all about Jacks, mostly, but they’d whispered to each other in French toward the end, when Jacks had been fucked out and used up and face down.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Just . . .” Luc looks down at the shit he’s just dumped on the floor of the foyer. “Go ahead, I’ll finish this up.”

Jacks leans against the wall and stares at Luc a little, measuring him. “Want me to bring him home with me?”

“Maybe not tonight.”

“Maybe another night?” tries Jacks.

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it,” says Luc testily. 

“C’mere,” says Jacks, and gets a hand behind his neck, reels him in for a kiss. “What do you always call me, eh? Mon beau mari?”

“You don’t have to talk pretty to me,” grumbles Luc, but his mouth softens under Jacks’.

“Maybe I like it,” Jacks tells him, and squeezes his ass before he leaves for Honoré’s.

*

“What are you doing here?” says Honoré, but opens the door for Jacks, and there’s the spicy chicken in the fridge like Honoré knew Jacks was coming over as soon as he got home.

“Can we talk about Chants?” asks Jacks through a mouthful of chicken. 

“No. We can talk when we go to Tahiti.”

“Babe,” says Jacks. Like he’s going to sit on an airplane between Luc and Honoré with the two of them sniping at each other for however long it takes to get to Tahiti. No way. “Come on.”

“ _Babe_ ,” says Honoré. “You come on. I’m going to ride you today. And I want you to tell me another story like the Gatorade commercial. And then I’m going to ride you again. And you can’t come in between.”

“Fuck,” says Jacks fervently, like he and Luc hadn’t had a sex fest just yesterday.

*

Jacks groans and rolls over until he can see Honoré. “I don’t want to wake up.”

“I open every day this week,” says Honoré, stretching. His whole body is pale and lean and hairless, and he’s basically the opposite of Luc in every way. The opposite of most guys Jacks goes for these days. But Jacks likes it, likes the way Honoré is flexible from yoga, and tall but still smaller than Jacks. Likes that Honoré doesn’t _care_ that he’s smaller. Aside from Honoré, Jacks has pretty much only been with sports guys the past few years, and even Dre, who was a great bro, was kind of an asshole about his size. “You can stay, though.”

Jacks looks over at Honoré, who’s turned away from him, his back twisted up in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable. Jacks wants to bite the back of his neck. 

“Here,” says Honoré, turning around. He holds up a key ring with four keys. “The second set is for Luc. So just . . . lock up when you leave.” His face is flushed red. Jacks doesn’t say anything, just waits. Honoré leans forward and brushes a kiss over his forehead. “Go back to sleep. It’s too early for you to be awake.”

“Merci, mon chum,” says Jacks clumsily, and slides down until his head is on the pillow again. He closes his eyes but watches through his eyelashes as Honoré tugs on his lace panties -- _lace panties _\-- and the same kind of tight jeans he wore through high school, a tight t-shirt, and then stands at the door with his head leaning against it for several minutes. The keys loom on Honoré’s pillow; Jacks can see them in his peripheral vision.__

__Honoré finally leaves, locking the door from the outside, and Jacks sits up, and reaches for his phone, plugged in on the nightstand. He snaps a picture to Luc: _Honore just gave us keys?_ he types._ _

__It’s 5:42 so of course Luc is awake and running. He snaps back a picture of himself stretching and one word: “So?”_ _

__Of course he doesn’t get it. He probably gave Sveta a key on their second fuck-date for easy access._ _

__Jacks rolls onto his stomach and takes a picture of the key, texts it to G, and doesn’t even bother to try to write this shit in French. “My husband’s boyfriend just gave me a key to his apartment so I can come over whenever I want because all three of us are fucking,” he types carefully. “Wake up and give me advice.”_ _

__Then he flops back onto his back because G is going to be asleep until like eleven since it’s the off season. Unless he has a tee time with Simmer._ _

__*_ _

__Jacks has reached the annoying point of his life when he feels worse if he doesn’t work out than if he skips a day, so he eventually crawls out of Honoré’s bed, eats two protein balls that Honoré has in his fridge -- and a bottled protein shake he finds that’s Luc’s favorite brand because it has the least amount of sugar and therefore tastes like ass -- and walks home. After locking Honoré’s door with the key Honoré left._ _

__Luc is stretching in the living room while Mako licks the sweat off his legs._ _

__“Bro,” says Luc. “Do you feel all satisfied, like high school Jacks getting to do the shit he never got to do?”_ _

__“High school Jacks sucked Honoré’s dick plenty of times.” Jacks drops the keys on the coffee table and lies down on the floor. “Are we lifting?”_ _

__“You didn’t fuck him?”_ _

__Jacks sighs. “He fucked me, and it was good, and I was not thinking about high school at all, Chants, I was thinking about how much I like getting fucked. I don’t wanna relive high school, I wanna move on.”_ _

__“You don’t even want to, like, role play that shit?” Luc sits up and starts scratching Mako’s ears. “I would --”_ _

__“Do _you_ want to fuck Honoré? Because you should. You should stop thinking about anal with other guys as cheating on me.” Jacks stares up at the ceiling fan. “We’ve had this conversation.”_ _

__“Well, fuck you too,” says Luc. He lies down next to Jacks. “It’s weird.”_ _

__“It’s not weird. It’s normal.”_ _

__“I mean it’s weird to change the way that I think and not have it be, like, science-based.”_ _

__“Maybe we really should have a threesome. A real one, not a Skype one. So I can be there. Talk you through it. Be gentle with you.”_ _

__Luc elbows him. “Shut up.”_ _

__“Come on, Chants. You like him, you want his ass. You change the way you think all the time. You just decide to do it and then do it.”_ _

__“I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. You know, Jacks? I don’t want to hurt him again. I feel like he and I should just be bros.”_ _

__“Is that why you quit fucking him? I think he thinks he did something wrong. Shit, Luc.” Jacks turns his head and puts his forehead against Luc’s sweaty biceps. “Okay. You don’t have to fuck anyone you don’t want to. But I hate his bed, I don’t know how you slept there all the time. It’s so fucking soft. I want to bring him here, even if we’re in one of the guest rooms. Will that freak you out?”_ _

__“What if you, like . . .” Luc hesitates, and Jacks pulls away. Luc never hesitates._ _

__“What?” Jacks asks. He slings an arm over Luc’s sweaty chest and slides on top of him. “What?”_ _

__“What if you fuck in a different bed and then come sleep in our bed with me?” asks Luc. “Is that too fucking weird?”_ _

__“Like, me in the middle?”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“You don’t think _that_ is going give Honoré the wrong idea?”_ _

__“I don’t even know what the wrong idea is, Jacks, really. I just don’t want to hurt him, and you guys made it really clear that I hurt him really bad. He brought back all my stuff and he doesn’t want to talk to me unless you’re there, and he doesn’t answer my texts and he calls me Chantal again, and I know you think I’m stupid and self-absorbed about other people, but I know when someone is pissed at me. And you think he’s right to be pissed at me.”_ _

__Jacks lets out a long sigh and kisses Luc’s neck. “I do, but he’s also really dramatic, so he needs some time to get over himself and decide if he wants you more than he feels hurt.” Jacks kisses Luc’s neck again. “Are _you_ hurt?”_ _

__“I . . . don’t know?”_ _

__“That’s okay.”_ _

__“Can we go lift now?”_ _

__“How many miles did you run today?”_ _

__Luc sighs into Jacks’ hair. “I don’t want Honoré to be mad at me. I didn’t know I was doing something wrong, I still don’t really think I did anything wrong, I don’t want him to be pissed, I want him to come over and make me protein balls and tell me I’m dumb because I don’t understand the French politics, and be an asshole all the time.”_ _

__“You miss your friend,” translates Jacks._ _

__“I miss his dick, too,” grumbles Luc._ _

__“You could apologize.”_ _

__“He won’t _talk to me_. He won’t even serve me at Le Café, you’ve seen.”_ _

__Jacks has seen. When they go in there, Honoré writes “Le Volé” on Chants’s cup. Of course, he writes “42” on Jacks’s cup, but that might be affectionate. There’s no way “Le Volé” is affectionate._ _

__“Send him flowers,” suggests Jacks. “That really pretty rainbow bouquet you sent me for Passover.”_ _

__“If I send him flowers, they have to be expensive and shit. I send you the funny ones.”_ _

__“He’ll appreciate the _thought_.”_ _

__“He’ll think I’m being a cheap asshole. He used to tell me not to be cheap, to bring him nice stuff.”_ _

__Jacks lifts himself up off Luc a little to look at his face. “Please tell me what he was talking about when he said that.”_ _

__“The good lube. And the protein powder he liked to use to make me food. And organic chicken.”_ _

__“Buy him the rainbow lilies,” Jacks orders. “Do not spend five hundred dollars on orchids that he won’t even be able to keep alive.”_ _

__“I don’t want to be an asshole again,” Luc says, barely breathing into Jacks’s neck._ _

__“I won’t let you,” Jacks promises._ _

__They only lift for long enough that Jacks doesn’t feel sluggish and headachey for the rest of the day and then Jacks pulls Luc, sweaty and stinky and his face glowing, into bed. He needs to be fucked again, and Luc is the guy to do it for him._ _

__*_ _

___Literally no one else has these problems_ , says G’s text. He’s been refusing to get Snapchat for longer than Jacks has known him, according to Ryanne. Something about a bet with Sidney Crosby that no one will tell Jacks the details of. Not even when Ryanne gets drunk on white wine will she spill the sacred details of the Snapchat Bet. It’s the worst being so young sometimes. Jacks missed out on so many great ridiculous pranks._ _

___This is Luc’s fault_ , Jacks insists. _Come back to Quebec City so you can help me with this.__ _

___Zero chance_ , replies G immediately. _I am ON VACATION.__ _

___LUC SEDUCED MY HIGH SCHOOL BOYFRIEND_ , types Jacks frantically. _NOW WE ARE IN SOME KIND OF CRAZY THREESOME. PLS HELP.__ _

___omg omg omg omg_ , replies G. _NO.__ _

___UR SUPPOSED TO B MY MENTOR_._ _

___Let me know when you need help with your slapshot._ _ _

___u suck at one timers_ , types Jacks sulkily._ _

___BURN,_ replies G with a gif of Beyonce rolling her eyes. _ _

__*_ _

__Luc comes to the couch where Jacks is sprawled, reading _Hitchhiker_ for the hundredth time, and climbs on top of him. _ _

__“Come with me to Le Café for tea?”_ _

__“Honoré opened today. He won’t be there.” Jacks turns the page._ _

__“Oh.” Luc slumps._ _

__“Do you want to invite him over for dinner?”_ _

__“What are we having?”_ _

__“I’m ordering in. Something carby. I don’t know. Italian.”_ _

__Luc heaves a mighty sigh._ _

__“You can get chicken parm. I’ll eat your spaghetti.”_ _

__“I don’t want Italian,” mumbles Luc, “I want tea.”_ _

__“Maybe if Honoré comes over for dinner, he’ll make you your fancy fucking tea,” says Jacks, who refuses to delicately heat the goddamn milk over the stove until it’s the exact right temperature and all this bullshit. Just put the water in the microwave, Luc. Fuck’s sake._ _

__The fact that Honoré made this tea for Luc on a regular basis should have been a clue that he felt more for Luc than just bros. No one who was just bros would work at a tea shop all day and then come home and fuck around with hot milk on a stove for broning._ _

__“You invite him,” says Luc. “He won’t come if I invite him.”_ _

__“You are so high maintenance,” Jacks says, but gropes for his phone. He also puts down his book and uses that hand to stroke Luc’s hair. It’s been a really nice, lazy day, but Luc’s hair is damp with sweat, which means he’s been working out, which means Jacks is going to have to add extra to his meal, or try to get him to drink an extra protein shake. Or maybe Honoré will bring over protein balls._ _

__He texts Honoré: Come over for dinner, our treat, we want to see u._ _

__Honoré sends back three eggplants, and Jacks feels like that could be code for how many dicks there will be _or_ what Honoré wants for dinner at this point._ _

___Italian for dinner AND as many dicks as u can suck if u want_ , Jacks finally replies. When Honoré doesn’t answer, Jacks adds, _SLEEPOVER!!!__ _

__Honoré finally answers him -- in French, because Honoré is a dick: Coming only to see Mako._ _

__“He’s not a vegetarian,” Luc says about the eggplant. “Get him chicken too. He doesn’t eat enough protein.”_ _

__Jacks closes his eyes for a moment. He’s pretty sure that’s Luc-speak for “I love him.”_ _

__*_ _

__Jacks hangs over Luc’s shoulder while he picks out flowers for Honoré. He points out a really nice green bouquet and Luc dismisses it. “His favorite color is orange,” Luc says. “I want to get him something that’s at least got some orange in it.”_ _

__“His favorite color is black,” says Jacks, feeling disoriented._ _

__“Bro, no,” says Luc. “Orange. That kind of pale orange of, like, sunrise? Like this.” Luc points to the pale yellowy-orange tulips on his phone._ _

__“How do you even know that?” asks Jacks._ _

__“Oli. Come on. We didn’t fuck all the time,” says Luc, like Jacks is the crazy one here, and selects those for same day delivery._ _

__*_ _

__Honoré shows up in a lacy black t-shirt that matches the underwear Jacks watched him pull on this morning, and the tight black jeans he always wears. No boots, though, just regular black trainers with skulls on them. He’s painted his fingernails black somewhere between this morning and now, Jacks notices._ _

__“Hey,” Jacks says, and pulls him into the house, leans him against the wall, and kisses him. He doesn’t want there to be any miscommunication. It’s nice having Honoré back in his life and Jacks wants Honoré to know it. He tucks his hands into the back pockets of Honoré’s jeans to pull him closer, and Honoré wraps his arms around Jacks’ shoulders and pulls himself up to wrap his legs around Jacks’ waist._ _

__“Don’t stop,” Honoré says into his mouth. “This is good.”_ _

__“I missed you today,” Jacks says. “I was forced to fuck Luc by myself.”_ _

__Honoré sighs and lets his legs drop. “And you ruined it.”_ _

__“I can tell when you lie.”_ _

__“No you can’t.”_ _

__Jacks squeezes his butt through the jeans, then takes his hands out of the pockets. “He’s really trying. Give him a chance. I know you miss him and I know you’re --”_ _

__“I don’t have to give him anything,” says Honoré, tossing his hair and giving Jacks a steamed look from under the eyeliner all over his eyes._ _

__“He’s just as upset as you are, and you know him just as well as he knows you, so . . . just . . . at some point he’s going to be too upset to keep going and then you’re going to be even more upset that you let him go,” Jacks points out. “I’m not going to be nice about this forever.”_ _

__“You’re not being nice about this now.”_ _

__“This _is_ me being nice. I’m Team Chants forever, no matter how much I like you.” _ _

__“That’s certainly bringing me in,” says Honoré in a weird voice. He pushes Jacks back and steps away. “Come over, Honoré, so I can tell you that you’ll never be as important to me as Chantal, and Chantal will tell you that you’ll never be as important to him as Jackson. You’ll just never be important, Honoré. Now eat your supper.”_ _

__“Honoré, no --”_ _

__“Thank you for your honesty, Jackson.” Honoré takes a deep breath and blinks his eyes a few times. Jacks realizes: oh, he’s going to cry. Shit. Jacks has already fucked this up. “Well. Feed me, please.”_ _

__“In the kitchen,” says Jacks, and leads the way, feeling like an asshole. He liked it better when Honoré was whispering, “Oliver, Oliver,” in bed, over him, fucking into him and kissing his face, when it felt like maybe this _could_ work._ _

__But Luc _is_ the most important. Nothing and no one will ever change that._ _

__That doesn’t mean Honoré can’t also be important, the same way G is important and Dre is important. They just aren’t on the same level as Luc._ _

__Why can’t people understand that?_ _

__Jacks shoots Luc a pained look when they get to the kitchen, but Luc is looking at Honoré._ _

__“You came,” says Luc._ _

__“Did you expect me to say I would and then disappear for two months instead?” asks Honoré icily, sitting himself down at the kitchen table. “Where’s Mako?”_ _

__“Outside chasing chickens.”_ _

__“I’m only here because I miss Mako.”_ _

__“Come on,” says Jacks softly. “Honoré.”_ _

__Honoré ignores the food on the table. “The two of you do not understand something about this. Telling me I’m not important is not the way to make me feel like I want to be here. To treat me like I’m important in bed, and then tell me in my face that I will never be important . . . why am I here? If you just want sex, just say you want sex. And I’ll decide, oh, sex, fine, or maybe I _won’t_ , do you know? Maybe I’ll tell myself, these charming hockey boys, they are not _worth this_ and I do not want it. I want to move on from them and go back to writing and sleeping with my own people at clubs and not _caring_ , only to have it all taken away.”_ _

__“You’re _important,_ ” says Luc._ _

__At the same time, Jacks says, “That’s not what I _meant.”__ _

__Honoré folds his hands. “Explain.”_ _

__“Jacks and I are the same team,” says Luc. “Always. No trade clause in effect. Never have to worry that anything could ever separate us. People can’t always say that. There’s always something fucking around in other relationships. If I -- you know, if Jacks didn’t hear from me for two months, he’d think I was being a dick, and he’d tell me so, but he wouldn’t stop talking to me, or --”_ _

__“No, if I didn’t hear from you for two days I’d blow up your phone,” says Jacks. “Even when I had a concussion, we didn’t go twenty-four hours without talking.”_ _

__“Even when you weren’t supposed to have your phone.” Luc reaches over and pinches him, and Jacks bites down on his arm hard enough to leave a bite-shaped bruise right on the bend of his elbow. Luc groans and Honoré squirms. So he knows that noise._ _

__“So other people come and go,” Luc continues. “Like Crash. She’s in California. But eventually I’ll see her again. Dre is . . . wherever he is now, and he’ll be in Philly for a while, and he might get traded -- not the point, okay,” he says when Jacks kicks him. “You, you might decide you’re so fucking sick of those asswipes at Laval, and you want to go to NYU. Like, I can’t go to New York, man, so what are you gonna do, not go? No, of course not. What are you going to do, not find someone else to fuck or other people to have relationships with? Obviously not, people need people, that’s, like, chemistry and biology and shit.”_ _

__“And shit,” says Honoré._ _

__“Hey,” says Jacks, “come on.”_ _

__“Désolé.”_ _

__“No, it’s fine, Honoré’s pissed, it’s fine,” says Luc. “You can be pissed at me forever.”_ _

__“Of course I cannot,” says Honoré. “Who would make your tea, Chantal?”_ _

__“If you never made me tea again, I would still want you here, mon chum,” says Luc, and Jacks’s heart grows a little at that. Honoré’s face softens as he stares at Luc._ _

__Jacks wants to take his plate and let them have a little date night, but he also knows there’s no way they’re ready for that. It’ll be cool to be a threesome for a while, until Honoré tells the assholes at Laval to get fucked and goes and does something better, even though Luc and Honoré are both so _intense_. They both need Jacks to be the chill one. It’s a lot of pressure._ _

__But the way they both _look_ at Jacks . . . _ _

__Luc has always been worth it and Honoré . . . Jacks is ready._ _

__*_ _

__Jacks sprawls out on the bed and takes up as much room as he can. The bed is made for two hockey players who top six feet, but adding another guy who is six feet tall to the mix, even though he’s skinny, means space is limited. At least Mako is in her own bed tonight._ _

__Honoré is in the middle, clinging to Luc. Jacks thinks Luc would have been down for fucking, but Honoré snapped that he wasn’t coin-operated and he and Luc kissed for about an hour or something, long enough that Jacks put down his phone and started trying to fall asleep._ _

__Some threesome so far._ _

__But no, they’ve missed each other. Jacks gets it. They haven’t _had_ to miss each other, they’re just both stubborn and stupid. Jacks has a type._ _

__(Jacks does not have a type. No other guy he’s ever hooked up with has been like this. They are all _easy_. Take Taylor: Taylor is easy. He just wants to get off, watch a baseball game, get off again, eat something that tastes good, and not let the press find out they’re fucking. _Easy._.)_ _

__Jacks turns his head a little and suddenly he can hear what Luc is whispering._ _

__“-- to the chickens,” he says. “And the greenhouse for the vegetables. And I want to take you back to New Brunswick, okay? We don’t even have to tell your dad that you’re there, but I want you to meet my mom. She’s so cool, you’ll love her. And I want -- I want you to come see me play hockey. I know you think it’s stupid, but I want it. And I want you to meet Crash. So you can see. That I never -- I never leave anyone, Honoré. I’m not going to ever leave you. I mean -- I might actually leave, but I’ll always come back.”_ _

__“I believe you,” whispers Honoré. “But I would like . . . to do that. Those things.”_ _

__“Would you believe me if Jacks wasn’t here to prove it?”_ _

__“I don’t know. But Jacks helps.”_ _

__“Jacks is the best,” whispers Luc, and Jacks falls asleep between breaths._ _

__**_ _

**Author's Note:**

> I have so much to say about Honoré I cannot even begin. Find me on Twitter @murdericing to chitchat.
> 
> \-- Super big thanks to [Superstition_hockey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey) for being a good bro and gently talking me through writing this on IM. Also for writing "Superstition" in the first place, it is my happy place, it is the best.
> 
>  
> 
> \-- Protein balls, a recipe I found many years ago (not mine), highly recommended: http://rydra-wong.dreamwidth.org/267801.html
> 
> \-- Playlist: “Hopeless Romantic” by Michelle Branch, “Like Gods of the Sun” by My Dying Bride, “Hello Lover” by Empires, and “Till Death Do Us Part” by Apocalyptica ~~(and “Let Me Love You” by Bieber)~~


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